Springtime of My Life
by Frisky Wallabee
Summary: Complete. 1987 pt 2 is up and this story is finally finished.
1. 1981

**1981: indefinite month/day**

"Is he dead?" a voice asked.

"I dunno. Poke 'im with a stick, Gair!"

Within seconds, he felt something sharp jab into his side. With a cry, he sat up to see two, very frightened boys. The two looked to be about his age. They shared a fleeting look of panic before fleeing down the sidewalk.

_Where am I? Where are Bernard and Lucy?_

Michael Waters looked at his surroundings. He was on a greasy park bench in the middle of a litter-strewn park. To his left, a pigeon poked at a used condom and to his right was a desert of cigarette butts.

It took him a beat to notice that he was clad in a jacket way too large for his small frame. It was orange with a collar of yellow corduroy with a number four sewn onto the left shoulder. The sleeves fell well past his hands and the hem dragged at his sneaker-shod feet. His Goodwill-bought, frayed jeans were spattered with mud and copper burs but what he noticed most was—he was _alone_. Not another soul was present in the park. His only company was the perverted pigeon. Where were Bernard and Lucy? They'd never leave him here. Never ever in a million years.

Mike felt fat tears well up in his eyes. Maybe…maybe they were gone. Just like the others. Once they realized that he wasn't like other boys, that he fell asleep a lot more, they ditched him. They left him here on a park bench in the middle of an unknown city with condom-poking pigeons! How could they do that to him?

Bernard and Lucy had been the nicest couple so far. They gave him nice—albeit secondhand—clothes. They gave him dinner with little to no mold or spoilage on it. Hell, they gave him _dinner_. He had had his own room. He only had to share it with the dog and Bernard's minivan. Why would they leave him here?

The tears started to roll down his cheeks. He rubbed the sleeve of the jacket over his eyes, chafing the lids slightly. Mike lay back down on the bench and started to sob. His entire body convulsed in loud sobs that echoed off the streets. They danced into the deserted park and played on the swings. The horny pigeon gave a 'hoo-hoo' and flew up into the sky, still clutching the condom in its talons. Mike curled his body up and tightened his hold on the jacket as another hard sob racked his body.

**June 26, 1981**

"Now, Mssr. Scott," the live-in nanny, Sandrine, chirped in a heavily accented voice. "You can go play on the swings but don't let your suit get dirty. Understand?"

Scott Favor nodded his head energetically. Sandrine grabbed his besuited shoulder to calm him down.

"Mssr. Scott!" she shrilled. "Your mother told me to keep you clean and neat for your father's dinner tonight, no? That means no getting your hair all messy and such."

Scott slowly nodded his head before heading off towards the swings. He cast a casual glance over his shoulder. Sandrine had seated her denim-too-tight-to-belong-on-a-nanny clad backside on a park bench and was starting to read some sappy, French erotica book—or, at least, that's how an early-jaded Scott viewed them. Scott turned his view back forward and loosened his navy tie until it was able to be taken off. He then stripped his suit jacket off and slung it over an orange coat that had been heaped on a park bench.

Much to his surprise, the coat moved. Scott jumped back before clasping his tie in both hands and pulling it taut—ready to use it as a weapon. His own jacket fell to the grimy, crusty ground and a boy who looked to be his age sat up. He looked like he was drowning in that coat. He had a pointed chin and an upturned nose. His eyes were a startling shade of green and his dirty blonde hair was in a wild mess. Like a bird's nest.

Scott straightened himself and fixed his imaginary tie. His actual one hung loosely from his other hand.

"Hello," he greeted and stuck his "tie" straightening hand out.

The boy blinked those green eyes at him before glancing at Scott's outstretched hand and then back to Scott's face.

"It's customary to shake," Scott deepened his voice in a vain attempt to sound professional.

Cautiously, the boy stuck a sleeve out. He then pulled his other hand up and rolled back the sleeve to show his hand. Scott professionally clasped it how he saw his father do and gave a firm shake. The boy seemed eager to get his hand back so Scott let go. As if it were a spring, his hand immediately shot back into the sleeve.

"I'm Scott," he offered. "Scott Favor."

The boy cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brows.

"Don't you speak English?" Scott demanded, putting his hands on his hips.

Slowly—very slowly—the boy nodded.

"Yes," he said quietly. His voice sounded clogged like he had a cold.

"Then what's your name?"

He looked around the park, upper teeth lightly resting on his lower lip.

"Chris?" Scott wasn't sure if it was meant to sound like a question or not. Either way, he was grateful that there was another kid in his direct vicinity to play with. So what if he was a little weird?

"Well, Chris, why don't you come play on the swings with me?"

Another nervous glance.

"I dunno. Bernard and Lucy are coming soon."

Scott frowned. He wasn't used to rejection. Favor's always got what they wanted.

"Who are Bernard and Lucy?"

"My foster parents."

"Why aren't they here?"

Scott didn't mean to sound harsh. Chris's face got nervous and sad looking.

"Because I'm a bad boy," he said quietly. "I fell asleep again during my soccer game."

Scott was getting into deep territory. He decided to let it drop. He had learned at a young age that it was important to stay only on the surface. Things got messy when said surface was scratched.

"Well…okay th—"

He blinked his brown eyes rapidly. Chris was gone. Man, that kid could run fast. If it weren't for the dulling sound of sneakers on pavement, Scott would've thought that he imagined the whole thing.

**1981: indefinite month/day**

Mike ran from the park, that enormous jacket flapping around him. What a strange boy. Scott. That was his name. Kids rarely talked to Mike. Especially kids in fancy suits. Brooks Brothers. Mike could tell since the label had jabbed him in the eye and awakened him. He wondered if Scott had a mansion or just wore suits for fun and lived in a normal house. Either way, he was better off than him. And much easier at meeting people. If Mike hadn't been terrified of freaking him out, he would've gone and played with him. Maybe—

"Slow down, little sweetheart."

Mike stalled in his frantic sprinting. Frightened, he clutched the coat around him more tightly and looked wide-eyed around him.

That voice. Despite the strangeness of it…it sounded slightly comforting. Like cream pouring from a bottle into a bowl. Mike shivered despite the warm weather.

"Don't be scared," the owner of the voice was walking towards him.

He was a stocky, solid man with a thick mass of black hair and twinkling eyes. He kind of looked like a cross between Santa Claus and a hobo.

Mike shivered again and wished he had a knife or a stick or something. This was karma. He believed in that stuff. Read it in the library once.

He fell asleep midfield and used a fake name with Scott. He had banked some bad karma. This guy was going to…to _kill_ him and leave his body for that pigeon to eat.

Then Mike noticed that a boy a little older than him was tagging along behind the man. He looked positively ecstatic to be with the guy so maybe he wasn't that bad.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" the man asked in a kind voice.

Mike contemplated using the same fake name—Chris—again but faltered. Bernard and Lucy, the fear of anyone knowing who he was couple, were probably never coming back. Or if they did, they'd smack him for falling asleep on the field and then being on a park bench. So why shouldn't he say his real name to this guy?

"M-Mike," he stammered, sniffing through his clogged nose.

The man smiled. It put Mike at ease a little. He didn't get any dangerous vibes from this guy.

"And how old are you, Mike?"

"T-ten."

To his surprise, the man chuckled.

"Do you always stutter?"

Mike shook his head rapidly and stared down at his shoes.

"No…" he glanced up, eyes wider than he'd ever felt them to be.

The man smiled and took a step closer. The little boy behind him followed. He appeared to be twelve, maybe thirteen or fourteen even.

"My name's Bob," he said smoothly. "Bob Pigeon. This is Budd. He's my protégé so to speak."

The boy smiled brightly, revealing a gap-toothed grin. Mike sheepishly returned the smile.

"Do you have a home, Michael?" Bob asked.

Mike shook his head.

"No," he whispered. "Not anymore."

"Anymore? Why, how come?"

Mike sniffed again.

"Because I was a bad boy," he said for the second time that day.

Bob knelt down so they were eye level.

"Why were you a bad boy?"

He had this…thing about him that just made Mike want to tell the truth.

"I was on a soccer team and I was passed the ball. And everyone was screaming and then I fell asleep."

This obviously must've taken him by surprise.

"Asleep?"

Mike nodded.

"Yeah. And when I woke up, I was on a bench being poked wiff' a stick."

"Now, that seems kind of rough to do to a child just for falling asleep at a soccer game."

"Oh, no," he made his eyes bigger. "It wasn't the first time. I fall asleep all the time. At school, at home…in the school pool. The world just spins and I fall asleep."

Bob and Budd shared an apprehensive look. Mike bit his lip. He said too much. He was going to be left alone again.

"My, my, poor child. Cast into the world for a simple problem. Well, my boy, worry no more about having no family," Bob proclaimed. "You will join mine!"

He stood back up and leaned back, seemingly appraising Mike.

"Hmmm…he can be like Gary and Digger. A pickpocket," he said, almost to himself.

Pickpocketing? Mike blinked his eyes rapidly. That was stealing! Did Bob expect him to steal from innocent people?

"…then he can join Budd's profession when he gets older," he nudged Budd lightly with his elbow.

"Right, Bob!" he said with a little jig.

Mike smiled dolefully. Despite the welcome and prospect of a new home, he still felt a pit of despair at the bottom of his stomach.

**June 26, 1981**

"Lovely night for a party, no?"

"Oh, it's so great to see you!"

_Mwa! Mwa!_

"Did you see Lillith?"

"Oh, heavens, yes. Chin tuck."

"Oh, what college is William going to?"

"Yale. Like his father. And Scott? Never too early to think about it."

Scott tuned out his mother's response and concentrated on sitting still. Usually, at parties such as these, he'd be fidgety and purposefully getting in trouble to push his parents' buttons. But tonight, he wanted to be the well-mannered boy they expected. He knew from experience that this could reap rewards.

The entire party was boring beyond belief though. Men dressed like penguins, boys acting too big for their britches, woman in floor-length couture gowns and their perfectly-manicured daughters. It was too much.

And the conversations! Amidst the constant praise for the Favor's new living room, petty gossip floated from everyone's lips to whomever was in earshot of a whisper. Even at age ten, Scott found this practice stupid and pretty useless.

The living room itself—which was more of a cocktail lounge with a television—had been expensively redecorated for the fall that wasn't due for another three months. Deep reds and chocolate browns. Wooden antiques from countries Scott couldn't pronounce. Fancy renaissance art with naked fat ladies. All useless in Scott's eyes. But no one ever listened to him. When you were prepubescent—a word he picked up from his usually good-for-nothing tutor—no one ever listened to what you had to say.

Instead, he sulked on an uncomfortable chair while guests cooed about how big he'd grown and what college he was to attend in eight years.

"Mother, can I go outside?" he asked suddenly.

His mother gave him an 'it's-not-polite-to-interrupt' look and her friends tittered about her being unable to control him.

"Scott," she proclaimed importantly. "We're going to be sitting down to dinner soon."

He sighed.

"I'll only be a minute, mother. Please?"

Not wanting to appear as a bad mother in the eyes of her friends, Eleanor Favor waved her son towards the elaborate, stone balcony.

Scott never understood why his parents even renovated their summer home in Seattle every year. It was redecorated just as often as their own home was in Portland and almost as elaborately. The only thing he _did_ care about, though, was the awesome view of the city he got. The tall buildings loomed like sentries over its residents. The moon was like a Christmas ornament hung on the black tree that was the sky. It was amazing. He wondered if that kid—Chris—was out there somewhere. He felt bad for him. He had the scared look of a stray dog. Maybe he'd be at the park soon. Then Scott could talk to him again. He seemed to be a change from the show-pony sons of his parents' friends.

"Mon-so-year Scott?" the overly French maid, Babette, poked her head through the door. "Dee-neer is being surv'd."

Scott had had the niggling suspicion that she was as French as his gym socks—that is, if he had any—from the time he was seven and had heard the unmistakable accent of a New Yorker. Of course, at the time, he thought she just sounded like Bugs Bunny.

Regardless, he followed her begrudgingly into the house.

**1981: October/indefinite day**

Living with Bob was probably the best time of Mike's life. He lived on the roof of an old office building in a see-through plastic tent. The tent was filled with blankets and there was even a pillow!

All he had to do was take a few bills off of a passerby a few times a day and he had actual friends! Friends that looked out for him and didn't care when he fell asleep. He was even watched over.

Mike really had no perception of time other than another day ending. He didn't even know autumn was upon them until it got really cold. That was when he knew he was eleven. His birthday was roughly a month before the autumnal equinox. He had actually had a party once he had told Bob that his birthday had passed. One of the pickpockets—who, coincidentally, was one of the kids who had poked him with a stick—stole a cake from a bakery and he had actually had a party. Like a normal kid!

He had a family. A real family that took care of him and…made him feel normal. Mike had never felt normal in his life.

Two of the pickpockets, Digger and Gary, weren't really street kids. They lived with their parents and only worked for Bob after school and on weekends but planned to ditch their lives and live permanently on the street since, according to Gary, they were too stupid to do anything else. That was how Mike felt. He fell asleep a lot. He'd be fired. The only reason he got to stay on the soccer team for so long was because Bernard hadn't been refunded the money he had put up for him to be put on the team in the first place.

But now…now he was happy. He actually had people who cared about what happened to him!

Sometimes they took trips to Portland to visit this old lady, Jane, who was a friend of Bob's. Mike liked those especially because her boarding house was heated and she treated the kids like they were her grandchildren.

It was during one of these trips—sometime near Halloween judging by the decorations in storefronts—that Mike saw Scott Favor for the second time.

He and Gary were walking on the streets, looking for a Goodwill store to buy stuff for their costumes. Bob had finally given in and allowed the three youngest to go trick-or-treating under the condition that they had to also filch candy from other kids.

That day was a clear day in Autumn. The kind of day that makes you want to run to the park and jump in a pile of leaves. Mike and Gary had been walking down the street when a sleek, black limo caught their eye.

"Shit, dude," Gary mused. "That guy is loaded."

Mike still wasn't used to obscenities being used by kids his age and cringed a little. Then he noticed Gary's brown eyes light up and, when the light hit them, he could even see little dollar signs.

"Dude!" he grabbed Mike's shoulder. "Dude, if we steal from this guy, Bob-dude would be most pleased, you know?"

Mike nodded and waited until Gary lifted his hand off of his jacket to speak.

"But I dunno. If we get caught, it'd be twice as bad."

"Don't be chickenshit, dude!" Gary protested. "We're kids! It'll be like _Oleander Twist_. No one gets mad at the cute kids unless your ask for more gruel, dude!"

Mike furrowed his brow but, in the end, agreed. That is, until he saw who was walking towards the limousine. It was Scott. Even all those months later, he could remember the suit-wearing boy who had tried to befriend him for such a short moment. A woman in a pair of extremely tight pants and a sleeveless shirt that showed a lot of middle-aged arm was behind him, carting a huge, white box and a black garment bag. Of course they could afford to go to a fancy costume shop and buy stuff good enough to be put in a bag. His assumption that Scott's suit-wearing had been for wealth was confirmed. Mike couldn't help but be impressed. Not with the wealth but that Scott had spoken to him. Kids who had limos never spoke to Mike. Of course, he'd never known a kid who had a limo but he could justifiably say that they wouldn't speak to them. Kids with Volvos didn't even speak to him.

"Hey!" Gary whispered excitedly. "Do you know that richie? 'Cause he's looking over here, dude."

So he was. Mike fiddled nervously with the zipper of his jacket. Scott waved to him. Recognition? He got recognition? The woman looked at them and cast a look that Mike figured she'd also give if she saw a cut-open pigeon on the ground. He suddenly got the impression that the garment bag was a body bag and the hanger was where the head was to go. He felt ill. It didn't help that Gary was waving overzealously back with a goofy grin on his face. Then…and then Scott started to walk over to him.

"Mssr. Scott!" the woman shrilled. "Get back here!"

He paid no mind and continued walking towards them.

"I thought you lived in Seattle," he said the moment he was near them.

Mike had no idea what to say. He just sniffled through his cold. For once, he was thankful for chatterbox Gary.

"We do but we're visiting a friend of Bob's…he's our protector and…shit like that, dude," he spouted at rapid-fire speed. "And I don't think we've been introduced."

He put his hands on his hips and smiled, revealing the gap between his front teeth. Gary was one of those kids that had the potential of being cute but never cared enough to make an effort. He had thick, wavy black hair and a pale face that was already defining a strong-jaw. He was short and skinny and always wore the hats that Mike saw on shriveled cab drivers.

Scott, boy was he professional, gave a speedy once over of all of this using only his eyes before straightening up.

"I'm Scott Favor," he said in an office-room voice.

Mike couldn't help but be mystified by this. Scott was amazing. He had only met him twice but he was already labeling him a "role-model" in his mind.

"I'm Gary, dude. And I think you already know—"

"Chris, right?" Scott turned to Mike and smiled.

"No, dude, Mi—"

Mike stepped on his foot.

"Yeah," he answered sheepishly. "Chris."

Dimwitted though he was, Gary understood that 'pain equals keep-your-mouth-shut' and loyally remained silent. This was quite the feat for a motormouth like him.

"Where are you to off to?" Scott asked in that same, professional voice.

"Goodwill," Gary answered immediately. "For costumes. Real cheap."

Scott frowned.

"Goodwill?" Mike could tell that the word sounded foreign on his tongue.

"Yeah, where the clothes lives," Gary rolled his eyes.

"Live," Scott corrected in a deadpan.

"What?"

"Live. You over pluralized it."

"I _what_?"

Yep, definitely role model material. This kid was too cool.

"Mssr. Scott!" the woman strode over and grabbed his besuited arm. Mike bet that it was another Brooks Brothers one. "Leave zeez _urchins_ and come on!"

"Hey!" Gary shouted. "Who you callin' 'zeez urchins', bitch?"

Mike wanted to run away then. The woman's nostrils flared and she looked about to spew fire.

"_What_ did you call me, you little bastard?"

Gary's mouth dropped opened. Mike knew from his months of being friends with him that Gary took extreme offense to being called a bastard. He once told Mike because he was one. He had no idea who his birth father was. Mike could relate. He could barely remember his own family. He didn't even remember a dad. He remembered his brother who once visited him at a foster home and had vague recollections of his mother.

"Don't call me that!" Gary screamed.

Mike grabbed the back of his silk, letterman-style jacket so he wouldn't tackle her.

"Come on," he quietly urged. "She doesn't know…dude."

Gary looked like he was about to cry. When he cried he nearly broke the sound barrier. Mike, instead, pulled him away. He kept his head down and said nothing. He yanked hard on Gary's jacket and the two broke into a run. He thought he heard Scott call out to him but he was already halfway down the block.

They never made it to Goodwill.

**October 31, 1981**

Mike was sick. Really sick. The kind of sick that kept you from going out on Halloween. He just stayed in his tent and slept. Bob had given him a little TV and he watched _Partridge Family_ reruns on it while the others got ready to pickpocket, deal drugs, and turn tricks. Mike watched a boy about twice his age get ready to pick up a john through the smudged plastic of his tent. That was going to be him soon. Bob said he'd be able to turn tricks once he turned fifteen. It was like a promotion. A rather promiscuous—a word he read on a page from a Word-a-Day calendar he found in the gutter—promotion but he still felt like it was a way to move up.

On the two by two glowing screen, Danny had let loose a quip on the manager and the audience was going wild. Mike turned it off. His head pounded and he didn't need canned laughter. It only made it worse. Instead, he plopped down on his pillow and pulled a blanket over him. Digger had promised him candy—amidst other ramblings—but it wasn't the same as getting it yourself.

He felt rank. It was the first time he had felt truly rank since Bob had taken him in. He sniffed through his ever-clogged nose—the freezing weather was doing him no favors—and curled up to get ready for a long, long night of sickness.

**October 31, 1981**

"I got a new boat to match my costume."

"My, Muffy, what a wonderful little costume. You look just like that young woman."

Scott turned his gaze to the girl in question. His own mother was tittering about how uncouth it was for a girl to dress as an exotic dancer while Muffy VanFossen flounced about in a _Flashdance_ costume. The boat-boy was Scott's supposed best friend, Charles Archibald, who was dressed as a skipper. Scott thought he looked like a throwback from _Gilligan's Island_—a show Sandrine loved and would force Scott to watch.

He himself was dressed like a musketeer who had lost two friends and was seated on a stone bench on the balcony.

For the party, the well-to-do Portland families gathered in the Favor's Seattle summer home which was customary to every Halloween.

Scott always felt restless but tonight…tonight he wanted to get out and roam the streets of Seattle with the other kids. He wanted to be normal for once. To go from house to house and, for a simple phrase, gain candy. Maybe even see that kid, Chris. For some reason, Scott couldn't get him out of his head. He was so odd and so interesting. He was different from the ho-hum, to-the-manner-born kids he usually interacted with.

"Scottie!" Charles' voice broke through and derailed his train of thought. "It's time for Halloween games."

Halloween games consisted of the kids running around blindfolded and looking for slices of fruit while the parents rated and _be_rated them.

Suddenly, he despised Charles in his navy blazer and maroon ascot. Muffy's costume wasn't cute so much as trashy. The parents' laughter and collective clink of glasses sounded like bacon frying and popcorn popping at the same time. He needed an escape.

Expertly, he marched back into the party and out the door of the lounge. Luckily, for once, no one noticed him. With as much speed as you could muster in pointy, brown-leather boots and a cape, Scott ran from the house and down the sloping lawn. He broke free from the wrought iron gate and out into the cold, clear night. The moon sheltered him like his own private nanny and he took off into the night.

October 31, 1981 

Scott scanned the busy street. He knew exactly what—or, rather, _who_—he was looking for. Kids in brightly colored masks and garishly painted faces whisked past him. He had to find Chris.

He spotted that talkative kid, Gary, with a blonde boy who had the appearance of a scared antelope. Gary was what appeared the be a vampire. He wore a cape and had his face painted white. Buck teeth were worn instead of the customary fangs so Scott couldn't tell if he was really a vampire or a zombie in need of orthodontia.

The blonde boy was wearing an extremely oversized backwards cap and a yellow sweatshirt and sweatpants with yellow feathers glued on. A piece of cardboard colored with orange marker was cut into a rough, bill shape and the same cardboard was cut into webbed feet over his shoes. He was carrying two bags.

"Hey!" Gary proclaimed in a slightly slurred voice. "The richie's slummin' it, dude!"

He elbowed his companion and the two approached him. The blonde boy pushed his cap back away from his eyes and smiled from under his bill.

"Hi," he said timidly. "I'm Digger. And—"

Gary elbowed him.

"Ignore him and thank me. I stopped a Digger-ramble," he said. "So what is a rich-case like you, dude, doing out here with the steaming masses?"

"Teeming," Scott corrected instinctively. Years with a straight-laced-ironed-underwear tutor made him correct people. "And I'm—"

"Looking for _Chris_," Gary interjected, spitting his buck teeth into the palm of his free hand.

Digger furrowed his brow which caused his hat to fall down again.

"Who?"

Gary whispered something into his ear and he nodded, blue eyes suddenly the size of discs.

"Ohhh," he said sheepishly. "_Chris_ is sick. He's on our rooftop."

Upon receiving directions to said rooftop, Scott started away.

"Wait!" Gary wrenched the second bag out of Digger's hands. "Give this to him. We promised him we'd get him candy."

He took the bag and bid the duck and vampire adieu before heading to visit his rather peculiar acquaintance.

**October 31, 1981**

Mike liked his tent. He made a vow to himself, as he lay there in half-fevered sleep, that no matter where he went, he'd build a tent like this. The see-through plastic was always in ample supply behind buildings and made a translucent veil around him. After that vow, he promised himself that he'd travel more. He'd go visit his brother. He lived…in one of the 'I' states. His brother…maybe he knew something about his mother.

Mike vaguely recalled her. He remembered being held in her arms as a baby in a puffy coat like the kind baby girls wore. She'd hold him and sing to him. It was—

"Chris?"

Mike sat up suddenly and nearly retched. Scott Favor was standing outside his tent. Tentatively, he crawled out and stood on the slab of poured cement. He was still feverish and immediately felt the compulsion to sit down.

"Here," Scott thrust a full pillowcase at him. "It's from Gary and Digger."

Mike numbly took the bag and placed it near his tent. He felt like he was about to pass out.

"Thanks," his voice was merely a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

Scott shrugged his shoulders and fiddled with his feathered hat.

"I wanted to see you…how you live and stuff," he said without a shred of sheepishness. "And it was more exciting than sitting in my family's stuffy lounge."

Mike was about to reply but was cut off by a booming voice behind him.

"Sweetheart! You brought company!"

Bob lumbered up to Scott wearing his royal blue terrycloth robe over his usual garb.

"And what fine company it is," he proclaimed.

He tilted his head and grabbed the sleeve of Scott's puffy shirt between his thumb and forefinger.

"My, if I didn't know better, I'd say that was real silk."

Scott wrenched his sleeve back, unabashed.

"It is," he replied.

"Real silk? Who did you steal it from?"

Scott rolled his shoulders back, the huge feather in his hat bobbing up and down.

"My father paid for it," he said with half-lidded deadpan.

"Your father?"

Mike took this opportunity to crawl back into his tent. As much as he wanted to talk to Scott, he was hopelessly ill. He grabbed his pillowcase full of candy and curled up on the blankets.

He vaguely wondered if by this time next year, Scott Favor would've forgotten all about him. He figured so. Cool kids like Scott always forgot loser kids like Mike. His curiosity would fade and he'd go back to his rich, perfect life. This was probably the last he'd ever see of the charcoal-haired boy who, despite his coolness and role-model material-ness, would only be a footnote on Mike's book of life.


	2. 1985

**1985 indefinite month/day…sometime in late summer**

Mike squeezed his eyes shut and mentally begged for it to stop. He clenched his fists around the posts of the bed and clamped down so hard on his lower lip that it started to bleed. He felt the mattress springs dig into his bare stomach and greasy hands touch his hair. It was horrible.

"Jesus, kid," a gruff voice above him grumbled. "Yer so fucking tight. Is this yer first time?"

Mike just kept his eyes closed. The pain was unbearable. To speak would probably make it more painful.

"Shit," the voice continued. "I better give you a tip for lettin' me pop yer cherry."

He laughed at his own joke and pushed harder. Mike nearly let out a whimper as he felt something in his backside give. The pain swelled and he nearly passed out. He couldn't pass out on his first night! It would be his childhood soccer game all over again.

That seemed so far away. His foster life and his now life were so different. At least he didn't get yelled at for passing out anymore…at least by those who knew him.

Mike was so busy contemplating this that he didn't know that the john was done. He rolled onto his back and felt something both hot and cold at the same time. The punter put money on his bare stomach and held up a maraschino cherry from the minibar.

Mike furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side. The john put it between his teeth and bit down. Red juice dribbled down his chin and down his neck. It was heading southward to his totally revealed…area.

Mike lowered his head. He then noticed what was both hot and cold, sticky and smooth. He was bleeding. His ass was bleeding.

Now he passed out.

**1985 indefinite month/day…sometime in late summer, past fifteenth birthday**

"The asshole did _what_ to you, sweetheart?" Bob demanded, banging his fist on the table.

Mike flinched and lowered his head.

"After I passed out…he must've taken the money back."

Bob rose and started to pace the room.

"How dare he take from one of mine! I bet he didn't even know!" Bob was gesturing madly.

Mike stared down at his grubby sneakers, feeling too ashamed to even talk. He was such an idiot for falling asleep because of a little blood. Okay, it was a lot of blood but still…

"What did he look like?" Gary asked. "Maybe Bob…Bob-dude! You could go kick his ass. That is, if you still could."

Bob stopped his ranting and marched over to him. He pinched Gary's cheeks together with one hand, puckering his lips so he looked like a deflated blowfish.

"Are you saying that I am too old, too _fat_ to take care of a rogue punter?"

Gary tried to shake his head but Bob's vice on his face wouldn't let him.

Smiling, Bob let up.

"Excellent," he proclaimed. "Now, Mike, what did he look like?"

Mike squeaked the toes of his sneakers together before curling his knees up towards his chest.

"He…he looked like Yukon Cornelius," he blurted out.

Bob and Gary gave him dual, confused looks. Mike wanted to sink into the floor then. Sink into the floor of the flat and live underground with the rats and spiders. He could picture the spiders' spindly legs skittering over his arms and the rats' naked little tails dusting his face.

"Who?" Gary demanded with a wry smile.

Mike sniffled.

"Yukon Cornelius," he said a little more quietly.

One of his favorite childhood memories was sitting with his mother and brother and watching _Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer_. Of course, none of them knew that and probably hadn't seen it themselves.

"A big…a big bushy, orange beard and curly red hair," Mike substituted, making his hand look like he was holding a bowl and putting it under his chin to show the volume of the beard. "About six feet tall, maybe more, freckles."

He shut his eyes and repictured him in his mind.

"Blue…eyes. Pale and really brawny. Muscular and shit."

When he opened his eyes, Bob was gone. He heard a door slam. The slammed door carried over a waft of stale air that smell like fish. Mike pulled the collar of his jacket up.

They had just moved into an old building near the docks. It was drafty but had radiators and was of decent size. The problem was the fact that it was over the fish markets and the entire building outside the rooms smelled like dead fish. At night, Mike—which he'd never really admit to anyone—pictured the little ghosts of the fish going into the rooms and playing tricks on them and sniffing through their things with their ghostly fish-noses.

It kept him up at night sometimes.

"So," Gary, never one to keep quiet for long, piped up. "You turned your first and got ripped off, huh?"

Mike stiffened at his words. It _was_ his first. Michael Patrick Waters was no longer a virgin. He just wished he had lost it to someone he cared about, not some john. For some reason, when Mike thought that, the picture of that boy he had met so long ago popped into his mind. Scott Favor. He hadn't seen him in years. He probably would never see him again so there was no reason to picture him at all. He could find someone to love him. Someone he'd see more often or…ever.

Mike couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he realized he was gay but he could generalize it. It was shortly after he had come to the street. Bob lectured him on the basics and he had realized that he wasn't that strange for not liking girls. Other kids were like him. Bob and Budd and Gary were like him. And so was Digger…except he had gone to Portland a few months ago. Plus, johns shelled out good money—according to Bob—for a hot piece of ass like Mike and it was better if the guyasm (as Bob called it) was real. Mike never saw himself as a 'hot piece of ass' but Bob assured him that he was that it was most definitely a good thing.

Reflecting was the last thing Mike remembered doing before his fingers started twitching and his head bobbed on his shoulders. He had come to expect his sleeping and felt it was like a part of him. His chest gave a convulsion and he collapsed onto the floor.

**August 29, 1985**

Scott rested his forehead against the smooth glass of the lounge window. So many stupid parties. So many stupid people. What was this one even _for_?

"Scott!" his mother hissed as she walked by to greet yet another guest.

Scott lifted his head off of the window and rubbed the oddly smooth, cool circle on his brow. He was supposed to interact with his peers but he had little to no interest in booze and boats so speaking to Charles or Rupert or any of them would be a waste of his time. And he certainly didn't want to debate which male member of the Brat Pack was the "hottest" so even going over to the girls would be a waste of kinetic energy.

It was getting to be his last week in Seattle. Then he'd be shuttled back to Portland to start his sophomore year in high school. At some single-sex, private school where he was required to wear a uniform and know how to conjugate in Latin. _Boring_. Latin was a dead language, what did he need to know it for?

"Scottie!" Charles' hoity-toity voice called to him. "Reginald has a new dame!"

Dame? Who used the word dame anymore? It was like these kids were in the twenties. It was sixty years later for Chrissake!

"That's fantastic," he deadpanned. "But I think I'll go for a walk out in the garden."

Per usual, the nuances—or lack thereof—in his tone were lost on his peers and Reginald took his statement as a compliment.

As if on cue, just as Scott was heading for the huge, mahogany double doors, a girl sprung up from the tight cluster and followed him outside.

Muffy Archibald was by far the last girl he wanted to talk to. She was the epitome, the archetype of the rich girl. From the clothes she wore to the tennis she played to the way she talked. Scott quickened his pace and took a left outside the front door instead of a right towards the gardens. He then sprinted down the cobblestone walk and out the wrought iron gate.

**August 29, 1985**

Scott had no idea where he was going or where he was going to go but he just needed escape from that lame party.

He wandered around until his feet went sore in his shoes. Glancing furtively over one shoulder, he ducked into an alleyway and yanked off his dress shoes. His trouser socks were also stripped off until he was barefoot. It was probably a stupid idea to walk the streets barefoot—actually, it was most definitely stupid—but Scott was willing to risk it.

For a final thought, he stripped his suit jacket and tie off and left them by his shoes. Scott unbutton his shirt a little and rolled the sleeves up. He then bent at the waist and tousled his black hair so it fell from its shellacked boundaries. He had no idea what he looked like when he ventured back out into the alley but he was pretty sure he looked like he sort of belonged.

**August 29, 1985**

"Hey sweetie!" the cry came from a passing car.

Scott shivered from his spot on some random bench under the overhang. The overhang stank like stray cat piss mingled with fast food. The disgusting homeless guy next to him was not adding to the effect. This had been a stupid idea. His feet were cut, dirty and bleeding and the trousers of his Hugo Boss suit were frayed and ripped. He cast a look to the right. A lighted sign put into the side of the bus stop overhang advertised toothpaste. To his left, a realtor's face grinned creepily at him from another sign. The glazed look in her eye seemed to be telling him to _go home_ but Scott was terrified of even moving. His father would rip him a new one.

"Hey, baby!" another catcall brought Scott out of his reverie.

This one came from a guy across the street. He was well built and pale. Scott could see that he had a thick, bushy orange beard and flaming red hair.

_Look away before he notices you!_

Too late.

The guy started walking towards him, heavy engineer boots making a thocking sound on the dark pavement. Scott turned his gaze upwards. A precocious little white moth was banging about near the street light. It was going to be fried soon. Lucky bastard.

He lowered his gaze and looked around frantically.

_Do something!_ He mentally urged the homeless guy.

His effort was in vain. The hobo gave a loud snore and rolled over. Before Scott could do anything else, a damp, sweaty hand clamped onto Scott's face. He turned his eyes and saw the full-mooned face of the man. A slow, easy grin was on his face. When had he gotten so close? Scott squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly wishing that he stayed at the lame party.

"Boy, am I lucky," he let out a whistle. "First that cute blonde and now you."

The hand nearly could wrap around his face. Scott opened his mouth to cry out. Maybe the hobo would wake up or some good Samaritan would stop and help. Before any cry could escape his throat, though, something warm and slimy was shoved in there. Scott let out a muffled cry. The man had him trapped. He had his slab of a hand suctioned to his narrow face and his gross, tobacco-tasting mouth on Scott's.

"You!" the yell came from somewhere to his left.

Relief! Glorious relief! The man retracted his tongue.

"You talkin' to me?" his voice was gruff and hoarse sounding.

Scott wanted to crawl up into a ball and float back to his house.

"Yes."

The voice…so familiar. It was like a childhood memory. That voice. Where had he heard it before? Scott leaned forward to get a glimpse of the speaker but his "attacker's" flannel clad expanse of torso was blocking him.

"You stole money from one of my boys," the voice said calmly. "I want it back."

Scott knew it was safe to assume that the "cute blonde" and the "one of my boys" was the same person. For some reason, Chris's image popped into his mind. Puh-lease, that kid was probably adopted by a loving foster home by now. It had been five years.

"The little bastard passed out."

"After the job was done. Give me the money."

"Listen—"

"You listen!" the voice was getting angry now. "Give me the money or I will kill you right here. In front of…"

The man who came at him was shoved to the side and Scott got a view of the speaker. It was that guy, Bob. He was one of those people who stuck with you despite their brief meeting so many years ago.

"Well…this is a coincidence. Where's your musketeer costume?" his tone was not mocking but his smile said otherwise.

"I left it at home," Scott answered, too shaken to make a smart comment.

"You tried to attack the heir of the Favor estate?" Bob asked the man. "Have you no decency. First deflowering poor Michael and now trying to screw around with the heir apparent?"

Michael. So it wasn't Chris. Like he really expected it to be.

"Scottie," Bob commanded. "Come with me. I'll get the money off of this lowlife later. Later, when I have a projectile weapon of some kind."

Scott quickly weighted the pros and cons and decided to go with Bob. What harm could it do?

**Dark. Really dark.**

Mike sat up. He had been moved to a blanket near the back of the loft. Voices mingled around him. They sounded like tinkling bells in his still groggy head. Yawning, Mike got up and headed towards the door.

"Sweetheart!" Bob's voice reached him before his hand hit the doorknob. "Are you awake? We have company!"

Company? Who would willingly come to their loft?

Mike tentatively pushed the door open and gasped. He never truly believed that people 'gasped' until that moment. Scott Favor stood in the hallway. Except…this was a different Scott. He was older, for one thing, and his hair wasn't neatly styled. It hung in his face like a greasy veil. He wore no shoes or socks and his pants were frayed and torn. A long streak of dirt ran down the leg. What had he been doing? His powder blue button-down shirt was un-tucked and the sleeves rolled up.

Despite all of this, Mike still thought he was the epitome of cool.

"Chris," Scott seemed surprised to see him as well. "I—"

"Scottie is coming with us to the party," Bob announced and put his arm around Scott like he was his long lost son.

"Party…"

The word sounded foreign on Mike's tongue. He had never been to a party before. None of his foster families bothered to throw him one—he rarely was at a home when his birthday rolled around anyway—and none of the kids at school would invite him to one.

This was the first he had heard of a party but he was excited. A happy bubble surged in his chest.

"Party," he repeated. "Let's go."

**?…1985**

Mike stared, mouth agape at the house. It was the biggest house he had ever seen. It loomed before him so high that the weathervane was but a tattoo on the moon which was high in the sky itself.

The house was in the good part of town. Houses with actual lawns. Houses made of fancy stone with ornate windows. For some reason, though, Scott was on edge. He kept creeping from shadow to shadow, eyeing the houses suspiciously. Bob put his arm around him like Scott was his long lost son.

"Don't worry, my boy. We won't let anything happen to you."

Still, Scott was looking warily around. Despite all of this, Mike still wanted to be as cool as Scott. Everything he said was just too cool. His shit probably didn't even stink.

"Where's Budd?" Mike asked suddenly, still staring wide-eyed at the house.

"He's out turning," Bob replied. "He and Gary'll join us later."

Bob said something else but Mike wasn't paying attention. They had just crested the top of the cul-de-sac and he could see the entire house. It was so surreal. The house was maybe twenty feet away now. A red glow was being emitted from lights stationed at several lights on the massive lawn and glowing through the enormous glass windows. Near the front door—which was ajar—was a pit full of what looked like mud. A bunch of kids Mike's age were rolling around in it. Licking it off of each other. He shuddered. Eating mud? Eee-euww.

"Suuuuuuueeeeyyyyy!"

A man in an apron and chef's hat came running around the side of the house with a huge, two-pronged fork in one hand and a spatula in the other. Others were drinking beer from paper bags and dancing wildly to music in an unidentifiable language. They seemed to shine in the moonlight. Red shine. As they drew even closer, Mike realized that they were all slathered in grease! Half-naked boys and girls gyrating and moving sinuously to the music. It was almost hypnotic. Mike blinked his eyes to keep from staring as though transfixed and turned to say something. Bob was gone. Scott stood frozen like a statue, mouth hanging open. It was the first time Mike had ever seen real emotion on his face other than a smirky smile.

Trying to seem just as cool as Scott, Mike simply put his hands in the pockets of his still-enormous, orange jacket; an act to denote that he went to these sort of things every night.

"Whoa," was all Scott said.

Mike nodded like he knew. He looked back at the mud-pit. Upon further examination, it wasn't mud. It was chili. The pieces of shredded cheese stuck to the bodies of the writhing kids.

"Let's go inside," he advised.

Scott nodded and they went in. It was just as bonkers—if not moreso—inside. Actual geese and ducks squawked as they waddled from room to room. Several greased up kids wearing pig snouts were having some sort of orgy on one of the couches. A group of shirtless girls in devil horns were dancing for some guy wielding a guitar. Mike's fingers itched for the strings. He had an acute fondness for the guitar. One of his foster dad's—a blind musician named Arthur—had taught him once. The only charitable thing he had ever done for him. Sometimes, Mike hadn't even been sure that Arthur knew he was a boy. Still, he hadn't played in so many years so playing now would be completely fruitless.

Before he could mention any of the scene before them to Scott, this guy in a beret sidled up to them.

"Hello, boys!" he cheered in an alcohol-infused, French accent. "I couldn't help noticeeng zat you two were, how you say, all alone in ze foy-ay!"

"Leave us alone," Scott said in a complete deadpan.

The man blanched slightly but a crimson color seeped onto his cheeks. Mike nearly took a step sideways to escape his inevitable wrath.

"Soccer-lay-blue!" he exclaimed. "I am geeving you boys a chance for luuuv with Jacques!"

"So?" Scott replied.

Mike felt braver being with Scott so he nodded gravely.

"Soccer-lay-blue!" Jacques stamped his pointy-shot-shod foot. "This is once een a lifetime opera-toon-it-ee. Come to ze closet-eh with Jacques. It's special, boys. Understandez-vous?"

"_Allez vous fair enculer, et vite, s'il vous plaît_," Scott replied with ease.

Jacques smiled.

"Exceeelent!" he cheered. "See you two later."

With that, Jacques jived away into the throng of greased up people.

"What did that mean?" Mike queried.

"Roughly? _Go have sex with yourself, and quickly, please_," Scott answered with a chuckle. "He'd never get it. He's Fanch."

"Fanch?" Mike sniffed through his perpetually clogged nose.

"Fake French," Scott explained.

"Oh…you know French? Are you French?"

Scott shook his head.

"My tutor taught me. I used to look up dirty words and write them on my arm so I could memorize them."

"Do you know any other languages?"

"Some Italian, a little Latin and a tiny bit of Russian."

"Russian?"

"My grandfather was in fear of communists so he figured we're going to lose and we're all going to have to speak Russian."

"Oh."

As they had been talking, the two had started venturing deeper into the party. It was sheer debauchery all around them. Mike's head was spinning. He wondered what Scott made of this.

"This is crazy," he observed. "Hey, Chris. I'm going to try and find a bathroom. You gonna be okay for a little?"

Mike felt a bulb of happiness blossom in his chest. Scott was looking out for him! He was too excited to make a reply so he just nodded. He watched Scott disappear into the mob of greased up people.

_Stop looking at his ass!_ His mind scolded him.

"Shut up, mind," Mike stated firmly before venturing more deeply into the party.

**Sometime after midnight…1985**

He wasn't going to play lame puppy and tail Scott, so Mike went in the opposite direction. He tried to push between a line of people dry humping each other but ended up getting groped twice and having catcalls thrown in his general direction. Mike had a feeling they weren't towards him. He was a plain as dirt street kid in a dull orange jacket and grubby Converses. He was hardly anyone who deserved catcalls.

As he continued walking, gossamer sleeves skimmed his face and moist bodies jarred him. Mike broke through the sweaty mass, feeling dirty. He was pretty sure some of that grease was on him and he was sweating from trying to navigate the main room. He looked at his newest surroundings. It was a long, narrow hall with teal argyle wallpaper. Pictures torn from children's books were tacked on the walls mingled with covers of homosexual porno mags. It was bizarre.

Mike rubbed an arm over his forehead before stripping his jacket off. He wore only a thin white tank top—all Goodwill had in his size—underneath and the sweat had made it almost see through. As he passed a frameless, oval mirror, Mike caught a glimpse of himself. His hair stuck up more than usual and his green eyes looked kind of crazed. He felt a blush creep up his neck when he looked at his reflection below his face. He could see his nipples through the damp shirt. His first instinct was to put the jacket back on but he paused. So what if his nipples could be seen? It was either that or die of being overheated. Besides, he was still one of the most dressed people at the party.

Finding comfort in this, Mike continued down the hallway until he came to the end and a door in dark wood. He could hear muffled voices coming from the other side. Feeling strangely brave, he knocked.

"Come in!" a jovial voice rang out. "And feel the love!"

"The love!" another voice laughed.

"Love!" the third voice was unnaturally high and squeaky like how a chipmunk would sound.

Mike twisted the crystal knob and poked his head in. Two boys and a girl were seated on a king-sized bed. One boy and the girl were smearing finger paints on each other while the other was bent over a mirror. What looked like sugar was set up in lines on the mirror. Mike furrowed his brow, was the boy going to lick the sugar off of the mirror?

Instead, the boy pressed in one nostril and snorted. Mike then knew what was going on. These kids were high! They were doing cocaine!

"Heya!" the girl squealed, just noticing Mike. "Come on in!"

Too late to head back now. Mike slipped into the room. The second boy—a chubby Japanese boy with a cool tattoo on his stomach—was chomping on a wad of gum. The girl was wearing a red velvet bathrobe and a pair of red galoshes with red wool tights. Her hair was red too and teased humongously. Crimson lipstick and eye shadow completed her look. Mike stood awkwardly in the still ajar doorway. The boy snorting cocaine—a blonde kid—looked up and a grin popped on his freckled face.

"Hey-hi-dee hey!" he exclaimed. "Welcome to our coop!"

"Coop!" the chubby boy bounced up and down on the bed, chomping his gum.

Mike shut the door and stepped forward a little. He felt like a huge dork standing there in his almost see through shirt with his jacket wadded up and under his arm.

"Come here," the girl chirped in that voice.

He took a few steps forward and perched on the end of the bed. The chubby boy held out a bag full of what looked like aspirin.

"Want some?" he offered.

Mike numbly shook his head, feeling even more like a dork.

"You'll be in ecstasy if you take it!" the blonde boy said loudly.

The other two found that immensely funny and started to crack up. Oh…so it was more drugs.

"That's okay," he said slowly.

"Then take a snort."

The mirror was passed to him. Mike stared down at the neat lines of cocaine. They seemed to be locking in his own reflection like white, powdery jail bars.

"We were using a straw to make it easier," the blonde boy explained. "But Holly ate it."

The girl, Holly, cackled.

"I threw up my dinner so I was hungry."

Mike faked a smile best he could but it was hard. He had never really faked anything before. The trio watched him liked stoned hawks. What was one little snort going to hurt? Mike bent down and pressed on his left nostril as he saw the blonde boy do and inhaled deeply with the other one.

**August 29? 1985**

Scott maneuvered his way back from the bathroom and paused in the foyer. Where was Chris? He had been right there. Scott shook his head. Had he been that conceited to think that Chris would wait there like some puppy while there was a party going on?

Scott shook his head again at his own snobbery and stole a look around. This party was nuts. He was used to "social functions" that involved haut couture and Armani tuxes. Greased up kids and chili wrestling matches were things he was accustomed to. Scott nervously rerolled the left sleeve of his powder blue Brooks Brothers shirt. Then the sleeves felt uneven tightness-wise so he had to reroll the right one as well. With his sleeves in order, Scott padded—still barefoot—into the backyard.

Hard, dry grass poked the bottoms of his feet the moment he stepped off of the patio which housed a kiddie pool filled with champagne.

Out on the lawn, people covered in paint and dressed in leather chaps and cowboy hats danced wildly to the music. It sounded Scandinavian. The music that is. Scott had once been forced to listen to world music by his summer tutor. He couldn't pinpoint the country but it was definitely Scandinavian.

"Come dance with me," a melodious voice broke through Scott's reverie.

A girl in fluorescent yellow clogs and a yellow and orange plaid string bikini stood in front of him. She looked to be only a little older than he was. Her blonde hair was worn in a I-just-had-sex style by use of copious amounts of Aquanet judging by the smell. She was streaked with paint and grease and what Scott hoped to be toothpaste was smeared around her mouth which was painted with purple lipstick.

Before Scott could answer her question, her pale hand wrapped around his wrist. Her dagger-like nails—painted a brilliant vermilion—dug into his skin as she yanked him out further into the yard. She then got in front of him and danced sinuously. She reminded Scott of the exotic dancers he had seen in movies. Her body moved like liquid…like a cat as she danced. Scott was oddly mesmerized. He soon found his feet moving and his hips matching hers. Before they could begin the sexy dance, that guy in the apron bustled by.

"Polka time!" he yelled in Scott's ear.

Before the ringing had even faded, the Scandinavian music was replaced by a bouncy polka song.

_That's my cue to exit._

Scott slunk away from the people who were now doing a version of the polka that should've had a parental advisory sticker slapped on it.

This party just kept getting weirder.

**Who knows…1985**

"I met a girl named Nikki, I'd guess you'd say she was a sex fiend," the blonde boy—who Mike learned was named Rex—sang.

"I met her in a hotel lobby, masturbating to a magazine," Mike finished. He didn't know many songs but Gary was always singing that one.

His head swam but at least he wasn't passing out. His one snort had led to two which led to five and now he was about to pass out. He staggered away from Rex and Holly and the boy with the hard to pronounce Japanese name and ran straight into the door. Jumping backwards, Mike put one hand on his forehead and the other around the doorknob. Once that action was finished, he grabbed his jacket off of the floor and tromped into the hall.

"Sweetheart?"

Bob? Somewhere in the clouded reaches of Mike's mind, he heard him.

"RAWR!" Mike jumped up and down and clapped his hands. "Hi Bob!"

Bob started towards him and examined him. He tapped his nose which still had cocaine residue clinging to it.

"Coke!" he demanded. "Where'd you get it? What have I told you about coke?"

"Rex," Mike said with more looseness than he'd ever had. "And don't preach 'cause I know you take it all the time!"

He tried to jump again but Bob had planted a hand firmly on his shoulder.

"Let's go," he commanded. "And do as I say, not as I do, Michael."

"Aye, aye!" he squealed happily.

He sunk into Bob's broad chest and nearly fell asleep. Mike clutched his jacket and startled to nestle himself in there.

"Let's find Scottie…"

**August 30, 1985**

Scott opened his eyes. He was no longer at that party. He was in his own bed. He bounced his body on the mattress to make sure. They squeaked. Yep, his bed. Carefully, he rose. His feet burned. They were still blackened and cut. His pants were still sodden with grease and his shirt hung off his shoulder, revealing a good amount of his pale chest. Scott touched his hair. It was greasy to the ends. He probably left a slick on his pillow. He was probably in deep shit but…he didn't care. All he cared about was going back to the street. Being with Bob and…and Chris. What a strange kid. Scott hadn't really known him that long if you think about it—four meetings hardly made them bosom buddies—but he felt almost _brotherly_ to him. It was endlessly strange. Still, he wanted to go out there.

Scott lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes. Chris…he pictured him in his mind. His angry father could wait. His morbidly embarrassed mother could wait. His whole upper-class, better-than-thou life could wait.


	3. 1987 pt 1

**1987…mid-June?**

Mike leaned over the side of the roof, staring down at the street. Beetles. Enormous beetles shuttled down the concrete path and ants. The ants scurried on the white borders. Mike pictured spitting. He pictured a trail of saliva from his mouth to the ground. He sat up and fell backwards with a start. That was gross. Mike physically stuck his tongue out at himself.

Rising to his feet—and feeling a wave of unfamiliar confidence in his new bought-from-Goodwill-boots—Mike breathed in. For once, he was happy for his perpetually clogged nose. The dead fish smell that slithered in and out of the building didn't affect him. Still, he longed for a way out of this city. Seattle was made from smog and the haze from drugs. It wasn't for him. Sometimes Mike felt like a creature…a fairy…trapped in a world he didn't create. A world where he had to give a part of himself to some random guy on the street every night. But then…where _did_ he belong? He remembered his trip earlier that year. Idaho. The potato state. He had gone to visit his brother, Richard. Even there, he felt oppressed. The small trailer with Richard's creepy paintings on the walls and low ceiling. Those paintings…they scared Mike. The family smiling creepily from their frame kept him awake when he had spent the night.

He didn't belong in Seattle. Maybe he didn't even belong on this planet. Fairy-boy. Fairy. It was ironic really. The name thrown so often at him when he had attended school a millennium ago turned out to be true. Not in the mythological sense but the physical one. Technically…Mike _was_ a fairy.

He pushed his lips out slightly in a fashion that he knew made him look dumber than he was. He wasn't into this philosophical shit. Hell, he couldn't even _spell_ philosophical. He was just there. Or not there. Sometimes Mike felt detached from the world. Floating somewhere above it, watching his body be penetrated by some punter.

He had intensified his usage of blow. It helped ground him and yet it sparked a light that made him want to soar. Soar and be a fairy. A fucking fairy. Mike let his body lay back on the roof. He splayed his arms out, palms up and stared at the sky. A sky of a white, smog-choked blue. Mike yawned. Ever since he was younger, laying down automatically made him want to close his eyes. Like those dolls that stared at him from store fronts. This time, though, he just yawned. Yawned and stared up at the sky, wondering where the fuck he belonged.

It didn't take him long. Mike knew that he didn't belong anywhere. Especially not in this place. It was fucked, Seattle was. Truly, deeply fucked. And it had the desire to fuck everyone over. Mike was a victim really. Fucked over nightly. Fucked over literally by those punters. Not that he would stop. What other job could he hold down? His sleeping spells were becoming more frequent and were lasting longer. More than once in the past month, a john had run off with money after Mike had passed out afterwards. It was fucked up. _He_ was fucked up.

"Mom?" he called upwards into the smog-infused sky.

Mike felt tears leak from his eyes and fall into his ears. What could he say? He only had vague recollections of his mother. Mostly it was mini-skirts and go-go boots. He remembered his mom wearing that combination all the time. It was odd, really, that _that_ was what he remembered. He also remembered being held. Feeling the warmth of someone who actually loved him.

Mike cursed inwardly. He was dreaming. Like he'd ever meet anyone who would hold him and make him feel special. The only person who came close was this guy, Doug. Doug. If his name had been Doug, Mike would've changed it to something less dork-sounding. Like all those who were named Doug were issued wire-rimmed glasses and Oxford shirts when they came out of the womb. But this guy, at least, treated him better than the other johns. He was this married guy who was feeling unfulfilled and restrained since he was really gay. Doug would come to Mike and they'd find a hotel room. For five hundred bucks, he made Mike feel special. He actually stuck around if he passed out afterward and Mike always got to watch TV or something. Doug was weird though. He kept telling Mike that he loved him but sometimes called him Charlie. It was all make believe for Doug. He didn't really love him. Mike was paid to love him, that was true, but there was no way Doug really loved him or vice versa. It was impossible to fall in love with some kid on the streets. Especially not some average-intelligence blonde kid who got bent over the minibar in hotels on a nightly basis. Still…it was nice being held and being told he was special. Sometimes make believe was better, he supposed.

But it was all a game. That's what his "career" was too. All just some game. Love was all that mattered to him and that's what Mike wanted. Someone to love him and someone for him to love. That true love he never knew. Some prince charming to swoop in and make love to him and mean it. To say 'I love you' and mean it. Not just to say it to get/give a blowjob. To get his name right. To stick around when he passed out and stroke his hair and, god damnit, to love him.

Mike snorted and dried his cheeks with the palms of his hands. Like that was ever going to happen.

June 12, 1987 

Scott had it all planned out. It was going to mind-blowingly simple. He had prepared for weeks preceding their summer in Seattle…which could've made a good title for some cheesy blockbuster. Ever since that party two years ago, Scott couldn't get street life out of his head. He'd lay in his bed at night, images from the party flashing in his mind in blazing Technicolor. They haunted him like ghosts. About two months ago, the idea finally formed in his head: run away. It made perfect sense. On one level, he could be wild. Free. He needn't have to worry about college. On the other…it would seriously piss his parents off, something Scott had been doing more and more often as of late. Pissing them off gave him a sort of sadistic pleasure. Getting sloppy drunk at one of his mother's cocktail parties and throwing up on Harriett Archibald's gown. His parents and all of the wealthy Portland families followed the belief that their children were able to drink alcohol as long as they kept up appearances—their excuse was, however, that they'd be less likely to abuse it. Scott wasn't keeping up appearances and he was definitely abusing it. He stopped shellacking his hair and left his suits rumpled. He'd guzzle vodka at parties and then go outside and rant in the streets. He heard whispers of him being sent to military school but Scott would be long gone by then. Military school. Yeah, right. His mother would die before seeing him off to Vassar and his father needed him around to be his show-pony son. Besides, he'd rather sleep on a rooftop than in a cot with his black hair buzzed into a hideous fuzz on his head. Scott preferred his hair to be falling into his face. The less people saw of his face, the better. He was seventeen and looked younger. His face had that stupid, prepubescent look to it and his almond-shaped, brown eyes had no hardness that was required in the Favor household. In retrospect, maybe his father would be happy to see the end of him. They hadn't been close since Scott had hit puberty and they were Yin and Yang physically.

Maybe it wouldn't even be forever. Two, three months on the street—just to get a taste of the life—and then back to his comfort zones. It all really depended on one thing. Chris. That was another thought that had been nagging on Scott for the past two years. That frightened little kid in that oversized jacket. He remembered shortly after the party. Chris's hair sticking straight up. His green eyes clouded and a huge grin plastered was on his face. There was a good chance he was stoned but Scott thought that he looked almost…cute. In fact, he was a cute kid. He probably looked younger than he was too.

God, he was sounding faggot. Leaving this place had come none too soon. He shook his head. Chris was only there to be a friend and show him the streets. Like the Artful Dodger only green-eyed and blonde with that cute little face of his—argh! God, he needed to get the fuck out of this house before he started skipping around in pink silk bathrobes and eating bonbons and watching _All My Children_.

He did it at night. It was clichéd but it gave him a great cover. With a duffel bag slung over one arm, he ghosted out the door. The path was almost tattooed to the inside of his head. He remembered his first trip sneaking out of the mansion. In his dorky Musketeer costume. Scott nearly laughed, picturing his ten-year-old self in that ridiculous hat tromping out the gate.

He turned to the house. It loomed before him like an omen. _Get the fuck out!_ It was screaming at him to leave. Scott did.

And with a 'fuck you!' he was gone.

**?…June…1987**

Mike nervously bounced on the balls of his feet, looking around. He hated being alone at night. He should've gone with Gary to see that new vampire movie but he didn't. He was saving his money. Plus, he knew he probably wouldn't care about the movie. Movies about happy people—even if they _were_ getting killed by vampires—made him depressed. He didn't care about the stylish vampires or their motorbikes or that eerily pretty male lead. Now he wished he had. He was alone on the street. Mike hated being alone. There were no other hustlers around him. It was eerie. He shivered despite the warmth. God he was fucked. More than usual. What if a mugger came? Mike laughed. He had to. Like a mugger would come near him. He had nothing of worth and it certainly didn't look like he did. The worst that could happen would be—

A hand wrapped around his wrist. Mike spun around, half-expecting to see one of those cinematic vampires. Instead, it was another hustler. The kind that mercilessly preyed on Mike because—he had to face it—he was rather easy to prey upon. It was really stupid, a playground complex. There was no "turf" and there were enough johns to go around. Mike figured they mostly hassled him because he was weak and small and that whole falling asleep thing. Usually, they came in ones or twos and tackled him. Mike was never a fighter and would usually fall down and nearly pass out—twitching and making them laugh even harder. Then Gary or Budd would jump in and whoop their asses. They lived all over and Mike really didn't see the use in attacking him other than for the sadistic pleasure it gave them.

This time however…this time there were a ton of them. Angry boys in leather, in spikes. Circling him. Creepy grins on their faces. The grins from Richard's paintings. Mike wanted to run but he felt fear, cold and metallic, lump in his throat and his body froze. His muscles turned to ice and his bones became tinker toys locked into position. He managed to take a step back and bumped into another boy. He grabbed his arms. Mike kicked his legs out from under him and they both fell to the ground. Then he heard the unmistakable _shing-click_ noise of a switchblade being flicked out. Oh, shit. Mike squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the imminent stabbing. His life was so unfulfilled. He never got to see his mother. To be loved, to—

His train of thought was derailed by a thunking noise followed by a muffled 'Ugh!'. He peeked one eye open and saw the other boys fleeing. One of them was clutching the side of his head. Tentatively, Mike opened his other eye.

Holy shit.

**June 12, 1987**

Scott looked at the boy sprawled out on the ground. Clad in a pair of cheap, secondhand jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, a gray tank top and an orange jacket. Orange jacket! Yellow collar. Four on the sleeve.

"Chris?" he ventured.

He looked around nervously.

"It's me, Scott. You know," he didn't want to sound pitiful so he kept his voice at an even deadpan. "I ran away. Came to live on the streets. With you and Bob and them."

"Oh…" he looked around again. "I'm not Chris. Chris…left. I'm Mike."

Mike. Scott felt like an asshole. But he was so sure it was Chris. Same jacket. Same crazy, dirty blonde hair. Same green eyes. Same pointed chin and upturned nose. It had to be Chris. And yet, it wasn't. It was this bizarre, frightened-animal boy.

"Oh, sorry. Well, why were they attacking you?"

Mike shrugged.

"Because I'm very easy to attack."

Scott left it at that.

"So…you're Mike?" he asked, feeling incredibly dumb.

He nodded.

"Yeah…"

Scott looked at him. Despite just becoming acquainted with the boy, he felt as if he had known him for longer. He felt almost…brotherly towards him already. It was fucked up.

"Do you wanna go do something?" he offered, hitching his duffel bag onto one shoulder.

Mike stared down at his boots as if unsure how to answer. Judging by the way his brow was furrowed, Scott could tell he was deep in thought. Maybe he thought that he couldn't trust him. He couldn't blame him. He wouldn't trust himself if he came barreling in, whacking guys in the head with a duffel bag and then confusing you with someone else.

"Okay," he said finally, looking up.

**June 12, 1987**

Scott entered the bar with a look of awe of his face. His amazement never ceased about these places. The bar was immaculately set-up. A long, mahogany counter with a top actually made of ice with green lights glowing under it. The rest was just a huge, wooden floor where people were dancing wildly. Renaissance-era art adorned the walls.

"Whoa," Scott breathed.

Mike shrugged.

"I get sent here nightly when I'm not near the washrooms," he said cryptically.

As if to prove his point, a few men called out to him.

"Hey, honey!" one guy shouted. "Who's your friend?"

Mike didn't answer them. Instead, he slunk off towards the men's room.

"Um…" his eyes nervously scaled the bar. "Wait here. I'll be right back. Order something from the bar."

So Scott did. The bartender seemed too preoccupied to card him and he certainly seemed to know Mike.

He ordered a vodka tonic and it was amazing. Not the drink itself but the fact that whenever half of his glass was empty, it was refilled. The amount of vodka in the tumbler never seemed to waver. Because of this, Scott really wasn't aware of how much alcohol he was consuming. It wasn't until the bartender asked him if he was okay, that he realized that he was swaying side to side slightly.

"Yeah," he slurred. "I just like this song."

Scott let out a chuckle and took another pull from his glass. The next moment, Mike was back, looking as drunk as he was. He kept rubbing his nose and sniffling a lot. His eyes were clouded and he had that perma-smile that Chris had from that party.

_Chris. Get that kid the fuck out of your head…he's gone._

Scott spun on the stool until he faced the dance floor. People packed were dancing to the twinkling stars above them. Scott suddenly became overcome with the urge to join them. He turned to Mike but the blonde was already gone. He was out on the dance floor, tossing his head and dancing by himself. Everyone else seemed to fade away. Scott had never seen someone so uninhibited. He was like from another world, locked in his own private groove. Scott watched, spellbound, as the rest of the people came back into focus. Some older guy, mid-forties, grabbed Mike around the waist and stuffed a piece of paper into his back pocket. It may have been the Ketel One he had consumed in massive quantities but it looked like that guy's hands rested on Mike's ass a little too long.

The guy pushed Mike away with too much force and—before he knew what he was doing—Scott sprang from the stool and caught him. Their eyes locked for a second. Scott pushed Mike into an upright position and felt his body start to move. At one point, they were dancing ala John Travolta in _Saturday Night Fever_ while banging their heads around. Scott felt like he was tripping which, in a way, he was. Neither of them was a good dancer but both were too intoxicated to care. By the end of the night, Scott figured he was more drunk off of dancing with Mike rather than the alcohol. He was generally feeling at one with the world.

Afterwards, they plopped at the bar and Mike looked at him with the seriousness that only a severely drunk person could have.

"I have to go somewhere," he said with a small frown. "Um, you could go to the loft. By the fish…place."

He sounded younger than he was before. Like whatever he had done in the bathroom had lowered his mentality. Scott didn't want to divulge that he knew where the loft was—although he doubted that he could find it. He didn't want to sound like a psycho stalker.

"I'll wait for you," he offered.

Mike shook his head.

"I'll be a while. You know? Just, uh, here."

He grabbed a pen and scribbled down an address with an extremely shaky hand.

"Go there."

**? June…1987**

Mike nervously waited outside the bathroom. He was jittery partly from the coke and partly from dancing with Scott. He touched his cheek and let a small, half-smile form. Scott was living on the street. It filled him with a joy he couldn't comprehend. He figured since, when they spoke, he no longer had to keep up the "Chris" charade was what made him happy but Scott…Scott was something else entirely. The touch of his hands on his back when he caught him lingered in his cocaine-clouded mind. He should've gone with him to back to the loft. Instead, here he was, about to get fucked again by some middle-aged drunk.

God, he was such a moron. Was it too late to get out? He could feel his buzz start to waver. It was understandable. He hadn't snorted that much and he had been developing a slight tolerance. Maybe—once his mind was clearer—he could convince the guy not to—

"Sweetie?" the man stepped from the bathroom, completely naked.

Shit. Mike fumbled with his tongue. It felt too thick for his mouth. He had to say something, anything, to get himself out of this. He just wanted to get out and go back to the loft.

"Um…"

Before Mike could speak, the guy strode over and plopped his ass on the bed, legs splayed. Mike knew body language. This guy wanted him to blow him.

"C'mere," he gave a lascivious wink.

Shit…too late now. Mike walked over and stared at the guy's penis. Ugh, no matter how many times he did this, it always grossed him out…unless he was receiving it. Then he felt a weird kind of ecstasy—something he really hated himself for.

Mike was seriously loathing himself as he felt his body kneel before the guy and put his head down.

**End of June, 1987**

"Okay, dude, this guy was fucking all over me. So I pull out a condom and the dude's like 'It's not my size' and I'm like 'Put it on or I'm walking and there are no refunds, asshole,'" Gary recounted, idly combing a hand through his hair.

"You didn't say that," Scott responded.

"Did so."

Scott leaned back on the roof and propped himself up on his elbows. It had been a couple weeks since he first came out to the streets. He had to say that he was enjoying himself greatly. The street kids were far cooler than the uptight rich kids he grew up with. They also swore a lot more. And drank a lot more. And smoked, snorted, and fucked a lot more. Still, he preferred Gary over Reginald any day.

"That didn't happen," Mike piped up. "Because you would've gotten your ass kicked."

Scott chuckled. Sometimes Mike could come up with an observation or, even, a joke that made him really laugh out loud.

Gary, on the other hand, looked affronted. He gave a dramatic heel-pivot before going back in the loft.

"So…Gary's a prostitute?" Scott ventured.

Mike nodded and leaned back so the two were in the same position.

"That'd be weird," he continued. "You know, being fucked by another guy."

Another nod.

"Mike?"

He shook his head.

"Yeah?"

"You were planet-hopping."

Scott noticed a blush creep up Mike's neck. It was cute…in a completely platonic way.

"Sorry," Mike lowered his head sheepishly.

Scott smiled.

**Summer…1987**

Mike leaned against the wall of the bathrooms, eyes nervously scaling the streets. Despite that, though, he felt an air of safety since Gary wasn't too far off. He had told Scott that he was going to go meet some friends. He felt like an asshole for lying but he hadn't yet been able to bring himself into telling him that he was gay, let alone that he was a prostitute.

"Michael!" a voice broke through his reverie.

Mike glanced up and saw Doug's car. His chin quivered every so slightly as he went over to the window.

"Hey," he said in a small voice.

"Get in," Doug commanded.

The car ride was brief and before Mike could blink—it seemed—he was bare-ass naked on the bed and being pushed into. This grounded him…he wasn't turning or tumbling. He was in his body being fucked.

Afterwards, Doug put his arms around him and kissed his neck, murmuring his name into Mike's ear. Except it wasn't his name. It was "Charlie" again. He had no idea who that person was but Doug sure seemed to like him a lot. Finally, Mike brought himself to speak.

"My name's not Charlie," his voice sounded clogged and young and not at all authoritative. "It's Mike."

Doug responded by tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

"I know."

"Then why do you call me Char—"

He was cut off by Doug sticking his tongue down his mouth. Mike wanted to cry out but it was proving to be rather difficult. He wanted to soar like he did when he was asleep. He didn't want to be grounded!

Scott's face flickered into his mind. It was an odd thing, picturing Scott during sex, but it took his mind off of the forty-year-old man with his tongue down his throat.

It was gross, putting those two together in his mind, but for some reason, Mike couldn't stop picturing _Scott_ with his tongue down his throat.

**Summer…July? 1987**

It had to be around July. Red, white and blue streamers were being put up around lampposts and stern-looking Uncle Sam stood vigil in windows, on stilts at used car lots and on the street, passing out invitations to barbecues.

Mike didn't get an invitation and he was happy for it. Why should he care about some dead guys who signed a piece of paper? Did he have freedom? In some ways _yes_ and some ways _no_. He could do whatever he wanted, _whenever_ he wanted but it wasn't liberating. Technically, he was free but Mike felt trapped. Like he was a bird stuck in a cage watching all the other pets in the shop get bought. That one puppy no one wanted because it was different. Because it limped a little. Because it was missing an ear. He was that stunted puppy. The reject of the litter.

Feeling uncharacteristically melancholy, Mike sat down on the park bench. He couldn't remember if it had been the one he had woken up on so many years ago or if it was a different one but, frankly, he didn't care. As long as he had a place to gather his eclectic thoughts.

The day was hot, though. One of those sticky hots that left a residue on your hands and made even your hair feel like it weighed one hundred pounds. Steam rose off of almost everything and the air smelled thick with rubber and the sick, tangy smell of garbage that clashed with the fish smell of the loft. The park was hardly a respite. Now the smells of pigeon shit and what Mike suspected to be semen—although even he would retch at the thought of how it got there—mingled to create a mosaic of displeasing odors that burned his nostrils like acid.

Mike had taken off his jacket and left it at the loft. It was too hot for it. He also made the unfortunate choice of going barefoot to keep his feet from sweating too much. Well, now they were dirty and cut…he would've preferred sweaty. So there he sat, probably looking about twelve years old in his torn, orange t-shirt and the pair of olive green, Army surplus pants.

So he thought.

He thought mostly about Scott. That black-haired boy was taking up a majority of his mind. It had been a while, almost a month probably, since Scott first came out to the streets. He seemed to be this light at the end of the tunnel. He spoke enthusiastically about his inheritance and how he was going to give it to them once he got it. Mike also suspected that Bob had the hots for Scott but was still deciding whether or not he was straight or not. He'd have it figured out soon. Bob was good like that. He once told Mike that he knew his orientation the moment he had laid eyes on him…almost six years ago. Shit. He was going to be seventeen next month. Most kids looked forward to their birthdays. Mike wasn't one of them. Other than his eleventh birthday celebrated all those years ago, Mike hadn't had a party and wanted his aging to come and pass without a fuss. Everyone would probably forget anyway.

Mike wrinkled his nose only partly from the smell. He was trying hard not to pull that teen angst thing. The 'me-me-me, whine-whine-whine' tirade all over some greasy park bench but it was hard. He was alone. No one else was like him, probably. Gay…a prostitute…drug user…chronic sleeper…

"Happy Fourth of July, Mikey!"

Mike was startled out of his reverie by the uncharacteristically chipper voice of Scott Favor. Sure enough, the charcoal-haired boy who had been strangely occupying his mind plopped his skinny, pale ass next to him on the bench.

"Why are you happy?" Mike asked, genuinely curious.

Scott shrugged and put his hands behind his head. The gesture caused his shirt to ride up. For some reason, the gap between Scott's shirt and the top of his pants made Mike look away and blush.

"I'm not," he admitted. "I honestly couldn't give two shits about this supposed holiday. Why should I care about a bunch of dead guys who signed a piece of paper?"

Mike's heart fluttered. Scott had just voiced the thought that had shuttled through his mind only minutes ago.

"Yeah," Mike nodded. "I agree."

Scott smiled. He had a great smile. Mike figured his smile would look great on TV. Like in a toothpaste commercial. Mike could never do something like that. He was too much of a freak.

Scott had once told him—a week ago, in fact—that Mike was too hard on himself, lookswise. He had even said that he looked like he belonged on the cover of _Seventeen_ with teen girls hungry to know his favorite color. Those were his exact words. Mike had felt so happy. He felt like he could share anything with Scott after that. After him saying what he was thinking right then.

"Man," Scott said suddenly. "I still can't believe that Gary fucks guys for money. I mean, where's his dignity?"

Maybe not…

**July 4, 1987**

The first firework went up. An exotic plumage of red bloomed outward in the star smeared sky. It was gorgeous.

Or else, it would be if Scott had cared to notice these things. He was on the roof of the loft with Mike. Perched on the roof like some animated gargoyle. The sky was black velvet with star pinpricks and the moon was an enormous, white melon resting on that astral blanket.

"A-whoo!" Scott pushed his lips outward to emit a wolf-like howl.

Mike gave him an odd look but his green eyes were dancing. Obviously, he had never seen this side of Scott before.

"Come on Mike!" he shouted happily. "Bay at the moon! Bay! A-whooo! Ow-ow-a-whoooooo!"

And he did. Mike let out a long howl that actually did kind of sound like a coyote. When Scott asked him how he knew, he responded with the word 'Idaho' as if Scott would understand. He hadn't.

"Well…whatever. Let's howl."

For what seemed like a while, they did. They let out gut-wrenching howls that would've made heavy metal rockers clap. Tossed their heads back and forth in an animalistic head-bang. Jumped on the ledge of the roof and yelled swears down at the passersby. Just random teenager shit. But it always went back to howling. Howling at the moon.

Scott turned and saw Mike, outlined by that luminescent orb. A huge, genuine smile was stretched across his narrow face and he really did look like he was from another planet. The shimmering moonlight made his eyes almost a neon green as he howled up at the sky. Alien-boy…

He hadn't been lying what he had said about the magazine. Mike looked like a fucking movie star. The problem was, he didn't see it. He thought he was some street-punk shit but he wasn't. He was…

Fuck.

Scott wrenched his head away in disgust. Fuck! He was thinking about Mike the way he thought about girls for Christ's sake! That was fucked up. Two guys couldn't love each other. No fucking way.

**July 4, 1987**

Mike's throat was hoarse from howling and growling and tilting his face up towards the moon like he was a lupine of the night. He stared at Scott, illuminated by the insipid moonlight. He looked like an alien but in a good way. A fairy-alien from the same planet as Mike. Then…then, his pale body tensed like a jungle beast and he sprang at Mike, tackling him like a giddy puppy.

The blonde hit the ground but managed to keep his neck craned to prevent a skull crash.

Scott yipped between laughter at his surprised friend and Mike yipped back. They both erupted into a wild fit of laughter. Mike felt tears squeeze from his eyes as he let his head rest on the concrete. His sides and stomach ached from laughing so much. Scott yipped at him. Mike returned with a yip and a short bark. And they laughed more. Laughed their heads off.

Then they both froze.

It was like a moment of total clarity or some shit like that. They just stopped and realized.

Mike realized that Scott's body was pressed against his in what some part of his mind hoped, a sensual gesture and his hands were pushed into his hair. Their faces were so close, if Mike puckered his lips…they'd kiss. In fact, the muscles in his face twitched as if they were itching to touch Scott's lips. Mike refrained.

Their eyes stared into each other. Green into brown. Brown into green. Just staring without blinking. It was like they were involved in an unorthodox staring contest. Then, Mike spoke.

"I'm gay," he said quietly. He couldn't believe he had just said that.

To his surprise, Scott nodded.

"I know."

Feeling urged by that response, he continued.

"I'm a prostitute too."

Another nod.

"I know that too."

"Okay…just making sure."

Scott got off of him and offered a hand to help Mike to his feet. He yanked too hard and they nearly collided skulls. Scott let out a laugh and Mike felt himself joining in even though he had thought he was all laughed out.

"It's okay, you know," Scott said with a smile. "I mean, I know you have to. Bob told me."

Fucking Bob! Who did he think he was?

"Scott, will you really share your inheritance with us?" Mike queried, deftly changing the subject.

"Sure, I will."

His voice cracked a little. Scott lowered his head and Mike knew that he knew that Mike heard it and knew that it tore him inside.

**August 23, 1987**

Mike turned seventeen. He knew the date only by a newspaper at a stand.

It was the worst day in a while.

The sky was a sick shade of brown-yellow-gray and it kept raining. Acid rain. It pelted and stung like hornets.

No one remembered his birthday. He never even told Scott when his was. If his rooftop confession had shaken him, Scott didn't show it. He didn't change his attitude towards Mike in the least. That was the only good part about the day.

He felt so forlorn. Sick and melancholy. He just wanted to find a hole to crawl into and die. Wither away like some discarded flower.

Honestly, though, Mike slept most of the day. He just lay back on the blankets set up in his corner of the loft and slept. It was nice, escaping the world for a little bit. To not have to worry about punters or if he was going to be able to get blow. He just wished that he could go into one of his sleeping spells. For once, he wanted that. He wanted just close his eyes and wake up days later. Skip his birthday all together. Just go back to being himself instead of his soulless shell of Mike that he was.

Mike really had no idea why he was feeling so down. Maybe it was just birthday-stress. Even if no one remembered, you still felt the pressures of being a year older. He paused and opened his eyes. If no one remembered that you were aging, did you age at all? If that were true, was he really still eleven and not seventeen? It was so confusing so…odd. He shut his eyes and waited for sleep to come. He couldn't. Stupid, asinine thoughts streaked across his brain, lit up like neon signs. He rolled around, wanted to cry out for someone. But no one was there. No one was there.

**August 23, 1987**

When Mike awoke—so he _had_ managed to sleep—Scott was there. He was sitting next to him, with actual concern on his face. Or, at least, it looked that way. He was seated at Mike's feet, back against the wall so he only saw his profile. Mike tilted his head to the side.

"Scott…" he said. "I was born seventeen years ago today. Do you think anyone cares I'm around?"

Scott made a contemplative face before nodding. He turned to look at him squarely in the face.

"I care when you're not…does that count?"

Mike's heart soared like a bird. He felt un-caged.

"Yeah," he managed.

Scott cracked a boyish smile.

"Happy Birthday, Mike."

And the day was good.

Later on, Mike lay down and stewed over things. Mostly, he thought about Scott. How his heart pitter-pattered when he was in the same room and all that. How that compliment from him made him soar like the fairy he knew he was.

He had a lot to things to consider: cutting down on cocaine, maybe easing up on the punters and shit like that. But now there was something else to consider, to think about. Something that'd be in his mind no matter how much coke he snorted, no matter how many times he got/gave a blowjob. A thought that was both equal bits good and bad. That thought was how he was in love with Scott Favor.


	4. 1987 pt 2

Who gives a fuck? 1987 

Scott was awaken by the slam of the door. The gross yet slightly comforting smell of fish wafted into his nostrils as he shot up. Racking sobs met his ears from whoever had just walked in.

Scott rose from the sleeping bag he had pilfered from a sporting goods store and went over to them. In the moonlight that poured into the loft, he could make out the familiar outline of Mike's small frame. So he was the one who was crying.

"Mike?" he asked softly.

Scott paused. He had never known his voice to sound so…small. So vulnerable.

The bright moonlight lit up Mike's face temporarily. One look at what was there made Scott hold his arms out and rush to hold him—something he rarely did. Mike buried his face in his shoulder, body wracked with sobs. He was actually shuddering from crying so much.

Before Scott could think about what was going on, they were on his sleeping bag. Mike was sobbing into his lap and Scott found himself absently stroking his hair. He felt protective of Mike. Like he was this little flower that he had to keep from getting its petals plucked.

"What happened?" Scott asked, lightly picking up Mike's wrist and squinting to discern the yellow-purple marks there.

"I wouldn't do what he wanted me to do," he whispered.

Scott let his wrist drop and started to stroke Mike's forehead the way his original live-in nanny, Clarissa, used to when he had been sick. He made sure his fingers stayed away from his bruised lips and his black-eye.

"Who was it?" Scott demanded.

Suddenly, he wanted this guy to pay. No fucking way could some asshole treat his friend that way.

Mike didn't say anything. Another sob made his body jump and his fingers started to twitch.

"Mike," Scott nearly shouted. "Don't go out on me now, buddy. I need to know who this asshole is!"

But it was too late. Mike had dropped off. Scott rested his head against the wall in defeat. He'd have to wait until morning or whenever to find out. God, why would some asshole do that to a kid? Mike was a young seventeen and that guy did shit to him like he was some play-toy.

If Scott had been less angry, he would've stopped to analyze the sudden jealousy that occurred but he wasn't so he didn't.

**??…1987**

When Mike awoke, Scott was there. His mouth was set in a thin, straight line and his eyes were twin flames of dark fire on his pale face. If he had been a dragon, he would have breathed fire all over the loft.

"What else did he do to you?" were the first words from his mouth.

Mike didn't speak. It was too embarrassing to recount. Besides, speaking of what happened to Scott of all people would've made him blush and probably get hard…if that didn't hurt that is.

Scott seemed too impatient to wait for him to answer. He inched up Mike's shirt before letting it drop.

"Asshole!" he shouted.

Mike lifted himself up so he was sitting before lowering his eyes. Scott had seen the bruises and bludgeons there too.

"Where else?"

"Down…there," he whispered, gesturing to the area below his belt.

Carefully, he stood and pulled his pants down. It was embarrassing as hell to show him but Scott wanted to know. Scott had this…_thing_ about him that made you want to do things for him. Want to give things to him.

It gave Mike both joy and disappointment when Scott just stared baldly at his exposed genitals instead of either being affronted or happy.

Mike knew that his eyes reached the bottom, the tip of his cock, where a set of angry, red indents in an arch like teeth ran. Where the punter had gotten angry and bit him when Mike wouldn't do what he had wanted. It ached. It hurt like hell. Fresh tears leaked from his eyes and ran down his cheeks in rivulets.

Scott's face paled and red splotches of anger appeared on his cheeks.

"I'm going to make that asshole pay, Mike," he said evenly.

Mike lowered his head and pulled his pants back up.

"You don't have to, man," he said, sitting back down.

Scott shook his head.

"Fuck yeah, I do," he barked. "That asshole fucked you up, Mikey."

Mike looked at Scott and it was like he was looking into a fairytale book. Gallant Scott. Sir Scott ready to slay the dragon for his friend. It made Mike want to pounce on him and rip his clothes off. But he resisted. The aftermath was sure to be a fate worse than death. In the months of Scott's stay on the streets, he hadn't given in to the hustler way of life yet. Mike was amazed by his persistence to stay semi-normal instead of fucked up like them.

He never loved Scott more than he did right then. Staring at him, ready to do battle with the john that had done Mike wrong. Before he could react, the words tumbled from his lips.

"I love you, Scott," he whispered.

Scott didn't seem to hear him.

"What, Mike?" his face was pretty close to his now.

Concern danced on his face like imps and Mike felt a blush creep up his neck while he mentally cursed himself.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Thanks, though."

"For what?"

"Caring."

Scott slid next to him and draped an arm around his shoulder.

"Think nothing of it, Mikey."

October? 1987 

Scott stared at his reflection in the window. Bug-eyed and wild-faced from not sleeping at all last night. He squared his shoulders and puffed his skinny chest out in a vain attempt to look bigger. He wasn't short by any means—in fact he thought of himself as _too_ tall—but he was lanky. He was still so coltish and pubescent looking. He was nearly a man for crying out loud!

He tousled his dark hair so it fell wildly in his face to give him a bit more of a feral look as he readied himself for a convincing argument.

"Bob?" Scott turned from the window and called out in the dark of the loft.

And Bob stepped from the shadows like a mobster in a 40s movie. Scott nearly expected him to be wearing a pinstriped suit and wing-tips. Instead, Bob wore his usual, royal blue robe and looked like he had just tumbled from bed.

"Yes, Scottie m'boy?" he asked.

Scott cleared his throat but was suddenly unnerved by Bob's appearance. Bob always looked at him differently from the others. Like he was taking bites out of him with his eyes. Like how he was staring at him now.

"Bob," Scott started. "Some john fucked Mike up. Do you know who saw him last night?"

Bob didn't answer at first. He drew closer to Scott so the two were nearly seeing eye to eye. Despite their lengthy age difference, Scott was the same size, if not taller, than Bob.

"Bob?" a whispered voice as though he were in a cathedral.

The older man cupped his cheek in one hand. Scott felt his heartbeat accelerate. It seemed to be telling him that something was about to happen.

He wasn't entirely surprised when Bob pressed his lips onto the contour of his neck but that wasn't to say he wasn't _un_surprised. A little gasp involuntarily left his throat as Bob nuzzled his neck in a way that made Scott believe that there'd be the telltale, raisin-like mark there in the morning.

It felt almost unreal, Bob's hand on his face while the other one inched up his shirt to feel his torso. Scott felt himself grow almost drowsy and too tired to put up a resistance. He had spent the night watching over Mike and felt about to collapse. He fell into Bob's chest as the older man continued to neck him.

What happened next was a blur. Scott awoke on Bob's bedroll, naked and wide-eyed. He sat up and found his worn t-shirt laying in a pile on the floor. He grabbed it and pulled it to his chest. Like he had to hide himself. Crumpled dollar bills fell from it. Where had they come from?

Thoughts were no longer attached to actions but Scott must have pulled his clothes on, grabbed the money and ran. Ran from the loft.

He ran like he was being chased. Arms pumping and legs screaming in confusion for the sudden gait. Scott kept looking back, half-expecting to see Bob following him. The people he passed on the street were looking at him weirdly. They probably thought he was on drugs and being chased by a figment of his imagination. And maybe he was. Maybe what happened had been a surreal dream and he was going to wake up next to Mike and they'd laugh about it before Scott went to kick the ass of the john. Maybe—

A large arm wrapped around his waist. Scott's arms and legs shot out comically in front of him before he was yanked into the alley. Now what?

The man was illuminated by the moth-infested light above the utility door to the right. He was tall but skinny. His ribs poked out from stretched flesh that was almost transparent. His eyes were like a goldfish, blue and round and nearly bugging from his angled face. The oddest thing about him was the sheer, steel cables of muscle in his right forearm. Scott grew sick just looking at it, knowing exactly how it ended up that way.

"Hey," he said, looking Scott up and down like he was buying a used car.

This was the last thing he needed. He shouldn't have left the loft. Now here he was, alone on the street, with this guy.

Scott didn't look into his face. He stared at his bony chest which was swathed in sheer, purple mesh to the bottom of his ribcage. A weird necklace with a ring on the end was around his neck.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" the guy asked.

Why did he automatically assume Scott was gay? Well, he might as well play along. Get this freak uninterested in him.

"Yeah," Scott widened his eyes to manic proportions and forced himself to look into the guy's narrow face. "He's in a gang, you know? And he doesn't like other guys coming on to me."

The guy took a step back. His plan was working.

"Yeah," he continued. "He's about six foot five, two eighty-five. All muscle. Kind of rough in the sack and shit."

Scott flashed the guy a petulant grin, showing more bravado than his jiggling insides should have allowed.

"You know," he said. "I think his turf's around here somewhere…you wouldn't want him to run into you coming on to me would you?"

He didn't give the guy time to reply. He was already halfway out of the alley.

So it _is_ October…October 14, 1987 

Scott pressed his body against the wall, feeling like a commando. A commando wearing clothes fresh from Goodwill but a commando nonetheless. He nimbly climbed through a window and tumbled into the living room. He jumped to his feet and ran up the stairs. This had to be quick.

Scott threw the door open and pulled open the orange knapsack he had with him. Pulling open the dresser drawers, he grabbed clothes and dumped them into the bag. Once it was full, he zipped it up and slipped back downstairs.

He was in the kitchen, stealing food, when he was finally spotted.

"Mon-see-your Scott!" Babette, the Fanch maid, stood in the doorway. "Where half you been? Your fat-her hass been looking all over for you!"

He didn't answer her. He grabbed the rest of the food in his direct grasp, feeling like a thief in his own house. He started away.

A strange confidence bloomed in the pit of his stomach as he made his way towards the door. He slung the knapsack over one shoulder and turned to face the very confused looking Babette.

"Where are you go-eeng?" she asked.

Scott looked at the ajar door and then back at her. A smile played on his face. Not one of those psycho, all-work-and-no-play-makes-Jack-a-dull-boy smiles that tend to freak people out. It was a goofy smile. One that rarely graced his features and made him look about ten times dumber than he was.

"Wherever," he turned back at the door before continuing. "Whatever. Have a nice day."

Scott turned back, gave a laconic, two-fingered salute and darted out the door, slamming it behind him.

Nighttime…1987 

Mike pressed his forehead against the window. The throbbing had ceased but his body still ached like hell. He couldn't bring himself to go out on the streets but he also couldn't bring himself to tell the others _why_ he couldn't go out on the streets. Maybe he'd make up an excuse. Like…he was treasuring his time in the loft. They had been found squatting and it was either: a) get the hell out of there by the end of the week or b) go to jail. Obviously, they unanimously opted for option A. They were heading back to Portland in a week. Maybe he could say he was staying in the drafty loft to cherish the moments. Yeah…like _that'd_ work.

Mike turned away from the window and slumped down, his back resting against the cold glass. His sudden depression wasn't brought on solely by the attack last night. Bob had slept with Scott. It filled him with an ache that seemed to burrow under his skin, lay eggs in his stomach, shoot bullets into his heart. Soon his heart would die from bleeding, bugs would hatch in his stomach and creatures would burst from his skin until Mike died and left a bug-choked, bleeding corpse on the ground. He wanted to die. It seemed so dramatic but that was what his mind was telling him to do. Die and get it over with. Die…

"Mikey?"

The ache returned. Scott was back. Mike crossed his arms over his chest, doing his best not to wince from the large bruise brought on by a kick last night. He kept his head down, focusing on the dusty planks of wood rather than bear to look at any part of Scott.

"Are you okay?"

Mike didn't answer. Why should he? Scott was big on not getting into the life and then he slept with Bob. It was almost as though he had betrayed Mike himself. And he felt stupid for thinking it. He had no hold on Scott. He was just his friend, his best friend. Scott most certainly didn't know about the hunger, the longing Mike kept in check around him.

"No," Mike finally said. "I'm not okay."

Scott sat down across from him, long legs folded Indian-style.

"I'm going to find that guy, Mike," he said solemnly.

"Sure you are," Mike replied in a petulant manner.

He sounded like a complete brat. Like a tantrum-prone little kid, having fifty fits because his parents wouldn't buy him a certain toy. And he hated that feeling.

"What's wrong?"

Then anger, like an arc of vomit, spit from his mouth. Mike shot his head up and glared at Scott.

"What's wrong?" he shot back. "What's wrong? What's wrong is that you fucked Bob! That's what's wrong!"

Scott looked taken back. That obviously hadn't been what he was expecting.

"Mike, I…" he looked down. "I…"

"You what, Scott?" he hated himself for screaming at him and he hated Scott for making him hate himself for hating him.

"I didn't want it," he said in complete deadpan. "I was confused and everything happened so fast. And I don't see why you care, Mike!"

The last part was said almost spitefully. Mike lowered his head. He felt like shit.

"I know…" he cursed himself for almost letting his feelings show. "I just…I mean…whatever."

Scott tipped his head to the side and Mike looked at him. He felt a blush creep up his neck but he kept his lust in check. What was with Scott that made it nearly impossible to stay angry with him? Did he cast spells to do so? Was he forever pulling tricks out of an invisible top hat to eliminate any anger towards him?

"What did he look like Mike?" Scott asked suddenly.

"What?" his voice sounded dreamy and far off.

"The guy," Scott said evenly. "The one who attacked you. What did he look like?"

Mike shook his head, suddenly back on earth.

"Oh…" he said. "Uh…he was tall. Taller than you, maybe, and really skinny. Kind of anorexic-y. And he had a weird necklace. Like a chord with a ring on it. He tried putting his dick through it to get me to…you know."

Scott's face was clouding over with a look of sheer anger.

"Mike," his voice sounded clipped. "Did he have a huge right forearm? You know, the kind you get from jerking off a lot."

Mike felt the color drain from his face. Scott was just that good! How did he know?

"Uh…yeah," he said meekly. "How did—"

He never finished that sentence. Scott was already out the door.

October 14, 1987 

Scott ran back through the streets, desperate to find that guy. His heart was a stretched drum as it pounded in rhythm with his feet. His mind worked in a constant rhythm to match his feet as he continued to run. He knew what he had to do. What were the chances that that asshole was still in the alley? Slim to none but Scott didn't know where else to look.

"Hey, sweetie. Where's your gang-banger boyfriend?"

Bingo.

Scott turned and saw that guy in the same, moth-choked alley. He stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He wore a button-up shirt cut so his hipbones—which jut out of a pair of leather pants—and his navel would be seen. A dragon was silk screened onto the shirt. That was how Scott felt. Like he was up against a dragon.

"You fucked up my friend," Scott said in deadpan. "You fucking asshole."

The guy laughed and stepped towards him. His hair was like blonde flames in the night. Scott crossed his arms and set his lips in an angry scowl. No way was he going to let this guy know that he scared him shitless.

"Ooh," the guy purred. "Tough guy."

Scott let his arm drop and took in the night upon his chest where his heart pounded furiously against the thin flesh. He felt his left hand start to curl into a fist. Without thinking, he lifted his arm and punched the dragon in the face. Big mistake. The guy grabbed his arm with that steel-cable muscled-by-masturbating arm and twisted it behind his back. Scott bit his lip to stop from groaning in agony. He kicked back into the guy's shin so he let go. Scott rolled and tried to jump to his feet. He had never fought anyone in his life. It was actually kind of exhilarating. The guy was then on top of him and all the air in his body came out with a whoosh. His head began to pound like a heart. The street lamp above blazed with white intensity, mocking Scott with its glow. Lit up by the mocking light, the man stared down into Scott's eyes, frightening him with the look in his creepy eyes.

"You are quite stunning," he said in a hoarse voice, pressing on Scott's chest with his bony knees.

Scott's lip started to quiver as the guy cupped his face in his hands.

**??…1987**

He dreamt of kissing him. He dreamt of pressing his lips to the devilish curls of his. Feeling the tickle of his dark hair against his chin and to be able to see love reflected in his brown eyes. The same love he had. Mike knew, though, that that would never happen. Scott would never see him as more than a friend—a best friend. Sometimes, though, he'd wake up in the protective hug of Scott's arms when he needed comfort. Scott was his panther, protecting him from any and all danger. He had beaten up that john for him and had almost been raped in doing so. If Bob hadn't happened by…Bob…the thought made Mike want to cry. After that, Bob and Scott had a thing. He didn't even know if Bob paid him. He just knew that they were together on the rooftop. All the time. Gary would make jokes about it—kissy faces when they walked by, loud laughs and innuendos—and Mike would laugh along but inside he was dying. Why couldn't Scott turn to him? Make love to him?

"Mike?"

There he was again. The ache tore at him this time. It made his stomach cramp and his muscles suddenly feel waterlogged. Scott stood in front of him, wearing only an Oxford shirt that came to the middle of his thighs. His dark hair was sex-wild and his eyes looked bleary. Mike lowered his head and pretended not to stare at Scott's feet when he approached him. His feet were slightly large but Mike adored his feet. It was a weird thing to adore but they were nicely shaped and proof that Scott wasn't entirely perfect-looking.

"Hey, Mikey," he said as if he hadn't just been being fucked by Bob on the roof. "Want to go out to dinner?"

_That depends…is_ Bob_ coming?_

"Sure," he said and stood, suddenly nose to nose with the object of his affections.

Once more, Mike wanted to scream and rip his clothes off but it seems that Bob had been doing that to Scott enough recently. Scott smiled a weird smile. It was kind of hazy but it reached his eyes and that was what mattered. It was a panther smile. That's what was weird. If a panther had a human face, Mike decided, it would look like Scott. A panther with slanted brown eyes that smiled hazy smiles. A panther that slept with the grizzled hawk instead of his friend the…what? Sparrow? Lab puppy? What was he? He had lion-colored hair, tawny and wild, but he wasn't a predator cat. He was a weakling. Maybe some kind of bird. What was he?

**???…1987 Nighttime**

The restaurant was one of those cheesy Italian joints: red-and-white checked table clothes, fat red candles with fishnet netting, paper napkins and music from a drunken sounding man. Scott had taken a wad of cash with him when he left the second time—when he had come back for his stuff—so he told Mike to order what he wanted. Neither had been here, a Portland restaurant. Renaissance cherubs and naked statues adorned the walls and wine bottles were suspended from the ceiling, looking like they were about to pour their bounty right on top of the boys. Scott wanted to tilt his head back and gulp hungrily but he knew that the bottles were empty and nothing would come out.

Scott swung his legs from the booth which was done up in black vinyl with gold accents; very ginzo. It was up high so his long colt legs could swing freely without worrying about whacking his too big feet on the floor. He pursed his lips around the cherry hanging off of the end of his drink. Unfortunately, places like this still carded so both were to order sodas. Scott could've sprung for a fake ID but he would be legal soon anyway. Mike was staring at him over the rim of his glass. Or maybe he was just studying the carbonated bubbles. Scott bit down on the cherry and the sweet juice flowed into his mouth, coating his tongue in a cherry condom. Scott laughed and nearly choked on the juice. Mike looked up from his glass. Why were all of his thoughts sex-based? Quickly, he yanked the stem from his mouth and cleared his throat of the juice. His wrists ached from earlier that night. A feeling had gripped him so tightly he had to run off to the bathroom. How he ran his hands over his body, left wrist aching in agony as he jerked off in a public restroom, was fresh in his mind. It was hideous and unsanitary but not as unsanitary as who he was imagining. The feeling had caught him shortly before nightfall when he saw the familiar form sprawled out on the roof in the plastic tent. Like a lion cub curled asleep. The feeling had settled like a lump in his stomach, causing it cramp and cause him to abuse himself. But sex alone, even out of desire, had never been his cup of tea and he found that it accomplished nothing more than to make his hands sticky. Maybe that was why his wrists ached. When he came it was in coughs and whines. The guy in the next stall had asked him if he was alright. Was he? He didn't know. There was no way he was gay. Yes, he was fucked by Bob on a nearly nightly basis and he had lately been dabbling in hustling but in both of those trysts, he was being paid. Guys couldn't love each other unless one of them was getting money. Of course, the thought had been some weird malfunction. Nothing more. Nothing.

The waiter, a gorgeous guy with fistfuls of ebony curls, brought them their food. His hand lingered on Scott's plate a little longer than necessary despite the heat of the porcelain. He stared at him through the steam and Scott felt himself suck in a deep breath. He dropped Mike's off without a second thought and strode by him. If Scott didn't know better, he thought he heard the guy whisper something. Mike ate his food politely and quietly as if he ate at restaurants all the time. Scott had to give him kudos not to tear into it like a hungry lion since none of them had eaten in a weak. Scott, however, wanted to grab his fork and shove as much into his mouth as he could without choking. But Favors were nothing if not polite so he followed Mike's lead and quietly ate his penne.

Later that night…1987 

Mike walked through the park by that fountain with the greening statues.

"Scott…" he ventured. "If I were an animal, what would I be?"

Scott said nothing for a while but stared at a park bench. It reminded Mike of the bench where they had met all those years ago. When he told Scott his name was Chris.

"A rabbit," Scott said, leaping ahead on his long panther legs to demonstrate. "You'd be a little tawny rabbit."

Mike didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or not but smiled at Scott's impromptu rabbit hopping nevertheless.

"What about you?" Mike asked, catching up with him.

Scott stopped bouncing and looked at him with his slanty, panther eyes. Mike watched him carefully, wondering if he'd say panther too. That Scott would admit to being his pounceable panther prince and they'd live happily ever after. He nearly laughed. Ha. No one wanted a factory reject like himself. The tossed off rabbit toy.

"I'd be a wolf," Scott said solemnly.

Rabbit and Wolf. Mike liked panther better. They walked a little further down the park until Scott stopped and looked at him. He said something quietly, a whisp of a sentence.

"Don't trust wolves, Mikey."

Mike shook his head. He had to be imagining it.

**1987**

Mike dreamed that night of a room. An electric room the color of watermelons. Stuffed rabbits were on the walls. Stuffed rabbits with green eyes. Dead green marbles inserted into their heads. A wolf was laying on the floor. It tore at a stuffed toy, fluff was flying everywhere. The wolf's back shone. It was a leather jacket. Big bad wolf tearing at a stuffed toy of a panther. The wolf looked up and stared out with tilted brown eyes and howled. It was the howl Scott made on the roof on the Fourth of July. A yip-howl that sounded more human than animal. The fire in the fireplace crackled with Bob's laugh and a creepy hawk above it began to squawk. Mike-rabbit sat on a wingback chair, watching the Scott-wolf tear at the toy. The wolf stopped howling and tearing and stared at Mike-rabbit. _Don't trust wolves, Mikey_. Then he lunged. White flashbulbs exploded and Mike sat straight up. Up on the rooftop, he felt so exposed to the milky light as white as the flashbulbs in his dream. Using the heels of his hands to rub the last remainder of sleep from his grass-green eyes, Mike crawled from his plastic tent—the scent and feel reminded him of his childhood on the roofs in Seattle—and looked around for Scott. He found him hunched over a pile of clothes. The flashbulb moon lit up his pale body, revealing the fact that he was completely naked. Mike felt a blush creep up his neck. He had never seen Scott naked before. And the fact that his best friend had no idea that Mike saw him stark naked as the day he was born made him feel scandalous and dirty. It was almost as if he were taking something away from Scott by seeing him like that. He must be cold. He must be fucked. People don't randomly get naked on rooftops. He had just been fucking. Mike felt the blush deepen.

"Scott?" he ventured.

Like an ebony-haired meerkat, Scott straightened up. He held the current coat selection over the pale perfection of a chest where Mike knew his heart beat so close to the outside elements as his did. That was why Mike envied the girl prostitutes. They had buffers for their hearts. He and Scott and Gary and all of the boy hustlers had their own beating so close to the surface without any fat tissue protecting them.

"Jesus!" he hissed, pulling a pair of underwear—obviously his own, discarded pair—from the side up and over his ass. "How long have you been there?"

Mike rubbed the back of his neck. "Not long. Were you just with Bob?"

Scott stood to yank on a pair of pants that were more hole than denim. He waited until they were fastened to answer.

"No…that waiter tonight. From the restaurant. He gave me his money in tips," Scott pulled on a worn t-shirt before layering on his hooded sweatshirt and leather jacket.

Mike nodded and wanted to edge closer to him but refrained.

"Oh," he nodded his head again, watching Scott pull a ski cap down over his panther-dark hair.

He looked ready to go to bed and Mike felt his chance slipping.

"I had a trippy dream," Mike piped up.

Scott tilted his head to the side like the Scott-wolf in his dream. "Oh, really?"

He was disinterested. Mike just nodded once more and sat back down. Scott hopped over to him, pulling socks on his bare, too large feet as he did so. Idly, Mike wondered why he was still naked if he had left the waiter.

"Scott?" an accented voice answered his question.

"This is his apartment building," Scott's chuckle splashed Mike with a spray of cold water. "We're not still fucking if that's what you're thinking."

Mike's heart beat like a rabbit's foot and he stood to go. The waiter was still here. Still here on the rooftop where he didn't belong. Mike felt sick. He had to go back to the safety of his tent.

**That morning…1987**

Scott sat on the rooftop, letting the wind blow his hair from his face. Something about the cold, stale smelling wind of Portland awakened a hollow feeling inside of him. It was as if it were trying to tell him something. But what? What could some breeze be telling him? He wasn't into that "listen to the wind, it'll tell all" bullshit self-help gurus rhapsodized about but this seemed to have a feeling. Nothing else had ever awoken this specific feeling before.

"Scott? You're up?"

Scott turned his head slightly and nodded. Poor Mike. It was hard to erase the small animal, pitiful look that he had seen on his friend's face the night before. They were moving their spot. The waiter had mentioned how he'd like to see Scott again sometime. He didn't think he was up to it. When he went to collect his money, all he could picture was Mike standing there, looking like a sad rabbit.

"Hey, Mikey. Where is everyone?" Scott asked pushing his arms up in the arm to stretch. "It was empty when I woke up."

"Not sure…I just got up."

The two boys sat next to each other on the rooftop, Scott's long legs dangled over the side of the building while Mike sat cross-legged.

"We make weird friends," Scott said out of the blue.

Scott imagined how they'd look from the street; photo-negative boys. Green eyes, brown eyes. Blonde hair, black hair. Poor mouse, rich mouse. Rabbit, wolf. Wolf…he remembered what he had said that night to Mike in the park. That night…seemed like a while had passed even though it had just been mere hours. About not trusting wolves that tear little bunnies apart.

"You're wrong, Scott," Mike said suddenly.

"About?" Scott felt his body stiffen. He had never been called wrong before except when his mother tapped him on the shoulder at "social functions".

"You being a wolf. You're a panther," Mike looked down at the early morning traffic as if he felt embarrassed about what he had said.

Scott leaned forward, strongly grasping the edge of the roof, to look at Mike's profile. Slowly, the other boy turned his head and their eyes met. It reminded Scott of them on top of the rooftop in Seattle at the Fourth of July. How their eyes met. What would have happened. Mike's lips twitched and Scott felt his cheeks heat up. Their faces were so close, they could kiss. Still, something seemed wrong about it. Guys didn't kiss. Guys fucked and got fucked for money but kissing meant more. Plus, it was like he would be taking something away from Mike. Something of innocence. So he pulled away. Shakily, he stood up from the roof and offered his hand to Mike. At first, he didn't take it.

"You're wrong again, Scott," Mike said quietly.

Once again, Scott felt himself stiffen. "Why this time?"

Mike stood on his own, not touching his outstretched hand.

"About us making weird friends," he explained. "We make very rational friends."

They laughed. It was a nervous laughter, a hard laughter like salt on an open wound. It burned and soothed at the same time.

"Mikey, I don't think we even are friends," Scott smiled. "We're brothers."

Positive, negative. Photo-opposite brothers. The two smiled at each other. Scott had on the panther-grin, the wide grin that showed more wisdom than it should. Mike wore a small grin, one that didn't pop and explode with flashbulb brightness but both seemed happy. Scott put his arm around his friend and led him down to the fire escape to where they could exit.

"Let's get some food," he said, rubbing his stomach.

They shared another smile, neither afraid at the moment.

--

**A/N: **And that's all she wrote. I've actually had this chapter sitting around on my upstairs computer completed since January but just now got around to submitting it. Hope you enjoy. This is, obviously looking at my profile, my last MOPI story.


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